Bygones
by freshouttaideas
Summary: "At least you got to shoot your father. Mine had the nerve to die before I got back from Basic with skills and a loaded weapon." It was the usual Tim Gutterson humor, dry.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes: **This is in answer to a request for a story about why Tim hates his father enough to wish he could have shot him. I want to thank the reader for the idea and thank hallonim for a critical eye. It's entirely fiction. I don't own anything by EL or F/X and I didn't mean to use your name if by any chance I did. As usual, I'm always happy to get a review but it's NOT necessary. I'll answer PMs, so feel free to send a note. Enjoy the reading. I write for the pleasure of it. It beats going insane.**  
**

* * *

**Bygones – Chapter One**

She just disappeared. He came home and she wasn't there. At first he was glad, snuck some bread and peanut butter, cleaned up the evidence of his wrongdoing and went back outside to feast in secret. After two hours though, and nearing supper time, it felt wrong. He kicked a stone down to the neighbors, all the way without losing it, walked up to the house, opened the door and called in.

"Mrs. Nickell?"

"Hey, Tim."

"Hey."

She came out from the kitchen, drying her hands, looked down at him. "Have you eaten yet?"

He lied, "No."

"Why don't you come on in and I'll fix you something."

"Okay."

He sat at the table, comfortable there, in the same chair he always sat in, feet now touching. She slid a plate across with a sandwich and he methodically ate, wiping the crumbs up with a finger and sipping at the reheated, sugary tea. She regretted not having milk for it, he was so scrawny. Then again, she reminded herself, his mother was tiny. He seemed to take after her not his sturdy father. She frowned when she thought about _him_, the soft lines in her face hardened and she was grateful all over again for Mr. Nickell.

"What were you up to today?" she asked.

"Just out in the woods. Have you seen Mama?"

She shook her head. "Out walking again, I guess?"

"I guess."

She took the plate and replaced it with a cookie which promptly disappeared then so did the boy. She watched him from the porch, followed his erratic meanderings up the road then went back inside.

The sun was low, down among the trees scattering light, then gone from view and the back side of the hill where his house was darkened quickly. Tim wandered the nearer paths in the forest in the remains of the second-hand daylight until he was uncomfortably cold. He climbed the back steps to the house and turned on the kitchen light and the light in the front room too, to fill it with something, and made another peanut butter sandwich. He was more careless this time with the evidence, feeling rebellious for being left alone so long, vaguely angry. He got his favorite book and sat at the table and read and looked at pictures but that got boring, restless as he was, so he started exploring the house. There wasn't much to it but it amused him, his game, and he always ended his clandestine operations at the closet in his parents' bedroom where he'd shimmy up the walls inside and wedge himself carefully on the high shelf, reverently pick up the rifle and pretend.

When he heard the car door slam in the front he hopped down and ran to his room, under the covers and faking sleep before the front door opened. Then truly asleep.

* * *

The sun had moved south in its path and came directly in his window this late in the season and woke him early. The bear was snoring and Tim knew from experience not to disturb him. He tiptoed over and peeked just to be certain but there was only one body on the bed. He wasn't sure what that meant except that his mother wasn't in the house again this morning and it made him uneasy. She always laid out breakfast for him, except today. He put on his shoes and jacket and slipped quietly out to look for her.

The frost was uneven, already painted over with sunlight in patches but shimmering in the shadows and fun to walk on. He admired his footprints melted into the silver, not old enough yet to dread it as a sign of winter looming, still appreciative of the variety in the seasons. He traipsed the well-worn paths again in the warmer morning light looking for her, was distracted from his mission for a while and climbed a tree, then remembered that he was on a hunt in time to use his high perch as a lookout. He was all there was.

Finally, sometime near lunch, he got bored with the task or maybe hungry and wandered back home. From the path he saw his father step out onto the porch and light up a cigarette. Tim crouched urgently behind a fallen tree. Best not to be seen, a lesson he'd learned well. After the car disappeared down the hill he slipped into the house and made himself another peanut butter sandwich and watched TV. The daytime shows were boring on every channel so he walked out the front door and went to find his friend, Christine.

It was a school day. A Monday. And this Monday his world was different and with no one to remind him, no one to hurry him out the door, it just never crossed his mind. The Sheriff pulled up beside him on the road into Campton, the road to Christine's house.

Tim stopped when the car did. The Sheriff rolled down the window.

"Hello, son," he said, friendly. "Aren't you supposed to be in school?"

Tim stared back blankly.

"Forgot maybe?"

He remembered what Mrs. Nickell had told him, always say 'sir' to the police.

"Yes, sir," he replied and wondered if they arrested kids for not going to school, wondered if he should make a run for it.

"Hop in. I'll give you a ride into town." The Sheriff waited while Tim ran around the back of the car and climbed in the passenger's side. "Better put your seatbelt on. I don't want one of my deputies pulling me over and giving me a fine," the Sheriff joked. "You're Frank Gutterson's boy, right?"

Tim nodded, nervous, fumbled with his seatbelt. The Sheriff waited patiently then put the car in gear and pulled back onto the road.

"Well, you missed the bus – by about five hours," he stated putting some severity in for good measure. "Where were you headed? School, I hope."

Tim shook his head, forgot about Christine, said what was foremost on his mind, "I'm looking for my mama."

The Sheriff reached into his memory for what he knew about Frank's wife. "Isn't she at home?" he finally queried.

Tim shook his head again and tried not to look concerned in front of the policeman.

"It's okay. She's probably shopping. Tell you what, I'll take you to school and then I'll find her for you. She'll be waiting for you at home after, alright?" he promised.

"Alright."

They pulled up in front of the school and the Sheriff put a hand on Tim's shoulder in case he had a runner, escorted him into the office and greeted the secretary.

"Mrs. Rose, I've found a truant," he said seriously and smiling to counter his tone.

"Tim Gutterson," she scolded. "Where have you been? And now you're wasting Sheriff Henley's time. Go on to class."

Tim was out the door, fast, before any more trouble came, running down the hallway. The secretary turned her attention to the Sheriff and defended the school though there was no need in his mind. He knew what the statistics were like in Wolfe County.

"Thank you, Doug. I tried calling his house when he was missed this morning but no answer."

"Is he absent often?"

"He normally shows up on the bus in the morning but we've had him sneak out at lunch once or twice and not come back."

He smiled in understanding and waved and left. By the time he reached his car he had decided to forget about the matter. Then by the time he reached the traffic lights in town he felt something creeping, something he'd rather ignore and hoped would go away. He sighed, turned the car around and headed back out to the Gutterson residence. No one was home but the door was open. He called in then nudged the door with his boot and it swung wide so he had a cursory look around. After, he stopped at the Nickells' to make some inquiries and had coffee and cookies and listened to what Mrs. Nickell had to say about her Sunday afternoon visit with the Gutterson boy.

Twenty-four hours was not a long time for an adult to be missing, no cause for any serious concern usually, except the Sheriff knew what kind of a man Frank Gutterson was. In fact, everyone knew. He was free with his fists, unhappy with his burdens, not angry so much as entitled. He felt he was blameless, that it was his right and that made him unpredictable. No warning signals like an empty bottle, not even a slow-building rage, he'd just decide it was time and someone would end up hurting. Frank had spent a few nights in the Sheriff's lock-up, sleeping it off or waiting for the charges to be dropped, usually a bar brawl, occasionally a domestic call, but nothing would stick.

Frank would be out the next morning. An insolent, "What?" and a shrug and he'd finish it with, "She shouldn't have got pregnant then I wouldn't have had to marry her, would I? Not my fault she's miserable."

It was too soon to file a missing person's report, but the Sheriff went looking for Frank Gutterson to have a conversation. He found him playing pool in town, unconcerned about his wife's absence.

"She'll turn up," he said, adding in a discouraged tone, for his pool-partner's amusement, "She always does."

Sheriff Doug Henley stood staring at him for longer than would be comfortable for most folk. Frank lazily lined up a shot.

"What?" he asked finally.

"You haven't seen her since yesterday morning?"

"That's what I said."

"And you didn't think to call when she didn't turn up last night?"

"She's a grown woman," Frank replied, smiled coldly across the table.

"You still working for the coal company?" The Sheriff remembered seeing him in a security uniform.

"Got laid off last month. They're cutting people like crazy. There's no operators anymore in the County. Not a job worth having." Frank's cigarette was burning low so he pulled his pack out of his pocket and lit a new one with it.

"Those'll kill you, Frank," the Sheriff warned.

"Nah, it's being married's gonna kill me."

* * *

Sheriff Henley showed up again at the Nickells' door, hat in hand, hoping for kindness.

"Doug," Mrs. Nickell invited him back in. Twice in one day was probably not for good news.

"Millie, I'm hoping you might help me out," he started. "I'm a little worried about what's going on at your neighbors'. There's nothing but suspicion on my part and I can't take that to Children's Services. Could you, maybe…"

"He can stay here," she said firmly, "if his mother doesn't show up by dinner."

"Okay, thanks. I'm going to meet him off the bus and take a look around the house. I'll drop him by when I'm done. It's Tim, right?"

She nodded gravely.

* * *

The boy and the Sheriff walked up the hill. The older one had informed the younger one that his mother wasn't home yet and asked if he could come in for a bit. Innocently, the boy agreed. Sheriff Henley looked around the house for something to go forward with.

"Do your folks get along okay? Any fighting?"

Tim just looked up at him. It was the kind of question his teacher asked in class after reading them a chapter of _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,_ the kind with no answer that made any sense because it seemed so obvious that it must be wrong.

"Does your daddy keep a gun?"

The sliding eyes and solemn shake of the head told him plenty.

"It's okay, Tim. I just want to look at it. I won't tell."

"My daddy's got a rifle. I found it once."

Tim led him to the closet, pointed at the shelf. The Sheriff reached up and pulled it down, had a quick look and figured it hadn't been used recently. He set it carefully back and smiled down at his accomplice.

"Do you know where he keeps the ammo for it?"

Tim shook his head again, sincerely this time. Sheriff Henley dug around in the drawers and cupboards until he found the box. It wasn't even opened. He smiled reassuringly for the boy, feeling a bit better himself.

"That's it then, I guess."

He took a last look around then delivered Tim to Mrs. Nickell. Her husband looked grim but didn't complain and after that when Tim's mother didn't come home that night or the next or any night again, he became a regular house guest, sleeping school nights on their couch, usually at the table at mealtime. She didn't stop him from going home when he wanted to. Nothing in the arrangement was legally sanctified. Frank Gutterson didn't seem too concerned one way or the other.

Adults talk and kids listen, then the kids talk. Tim heard it for the first time from his best friend.

Christine sat beside him on the bus, shook her head looking like Mrs. Rose from the school office and said, "If your daddy killed your mama then how come he's not in jail?"

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	2. Chapter 2

**Bygones – Chapter Two**

The smell of mold from the rotting leaves drifted across every yard, into every house with a window open to chase out winter. It stuck to the bottom of boots and car tires and stirred in the puddles from the spring rains. There had been more snow than is usual for Kentucky and it receded reluctantly in the shadowy hollers, exposing the forest debris from the previous autumn slowly, and then running finally, melted, into creeks along the rocky hills or seeping out of cliff faces. A pair of climbers, hiking off the paths and scouting for untouched routes in the rock outcroppings, stumbled over her body lying still in the shadows under an icy blanket of old snow.

It was a dry funeral. The alcohol flowed but not the tears. She'd been missing already for four months and anyone who might grieve her had already done so. Mrs. Nickell had trouble getting through the service, not for the woman found but for the boy lost. He sat next to his father as was proper but she commented on the considerable space left between them on the church pew and Tim went home with her afterward for dinner leaving Frank Gutterson on his own to handle his grief with a few bottles and some friends. Mrs. Nickell figured he would cope just fine. He proved her right by carrying the party through until the wee hours.

A more somber gathering was held at her house; she made coffee and put out cookies for those sympathetic who came to talk.

"Now Millie, it doesn't pay to speculate," Sheriff Henley said, standing in her kitchen while she loaded donated food onto plates. "What good does it do?"

"You can't tell me it was an accident, Doug," she responded. "She never walked over in that part of the forest and never wandered off the paths."

"She was depressed."

"She's been depressed for years and who can blame her? But there are more sure ways to leave this world. And I can't believe she'd abandon her boy."

"We have nothing, Millie, and I shouldn't even be talking to you about it. Accidental death. Misadventure. Let's leave it at that."

Tim and Christine ran around the woods playing escape from the monsters, sneaking in now and then to warm toes and grab cookies and feast on cake. Mrs. Nickell made them tea later and they sat at the kitchen table ignoring the adults in the front room. One would wander through occasionally, run a hand over Christine's hair or mess Tim's. Tim would growl after and Christine would giggle.

They were enjoying themselves now that the boring part of the day was over. Neither of them knew what to make of it all but they both recognized an opportunity for fun and took advantage of the extra freedom and the extra baking. Tim's mother was already gone, gone and cried for and slid into the back of his life, into his memories. His feelings for whatever was in the coffin at the service were fleeting and remote, like movement that you catch out of the corner of your eye in the woods that you know was a bird or an animal and wish you could have seen but didn't, and can't regret long since you weren't sure what it was anyway. His feelings for her were like that and wouldn't linger, not in the mind of a nine-year-old boy.

"Let's go back out," Tim suggested later. He was restless in the stuffy house filled too full with people.

Christine didn't mind the warmth, the lit room and the calm chatter, shook her head slowly and stayed put in her chair. "It's getting dark. I don't like the dark," she said firmly.

"My daddy's got a rifle. We could get it."

"You don't know how to shoot a rifle."

"Do so," he lied. "Come on."

"Is he even your daddy anymore?" she hissed, trying to keep him inside.

"Sure he is," Tim answered, a bit of flint to the edges of his tone. It felt something like a dare, the way she said it, and it moved him to be reckless.

She hesitated when he pushed back his chair, but he was up and already putting on his boots and jacket and she caught some of his adventurous energy and followed. They slipped out the back and Tim led her on his secret path through the forest to his front yard. He knew where the rifle was and he knew where the box of ammunition was and he figured it couldn't be too hard to put the two of them together. The idea thrilled him and scared him and he liked both feelings. But the feelings that crept under his jacket as they got close to his house, those feelings he didn't like, those feelings crawled in under his skin when he heard the laughter from the men smoking and drinking on the porch, the laughter jabbing and slicing into the night air, those feelings sank down into the pit of his stomach and turned the cake sour, those feelings swallowed whole the other feelings, the thrill and excitement, and stopped him cold on the edge of the opening to the yard. Christine had stopped before that even but Tim had crouched and inched forward enough to watch, uncertain now, dreading, confused. This wasn't fun anymore. Finally, Christine tiptoed closer, painfully quiet though she could never be heard over the sharp-edged laughter. She reached out and took hold of his jacket and pulled him back.

"I want to go home now."

"Fine, if that's what you want," he conceded, a whisper with a weak sneering worked in. He led her back.

But the next time Tim and Christine explored in the woods, he was ready. They went first to Tim's house, looking anxiously in the yard for the car then sneaking up and onto the porch, hesitant, and on in through the front door. He shimmied the closet walls and pulled down the rifle, collected the box of ammunition from the drawer and the two friends ran, breathless, out the back and into the woods until they were out of sight of the property. Tim sat and loaded the old rifle, fumbling it a few times, dropping a round in the leaves, but carrying on, determined. He had asked, shy and polite, to be included on Mr. Nickell's spring hunting weekend, watched every action with the rifle, remembering. He listened gravely to all the safety warnings, nodded when he should, got a turn to shoot, and now he was ready.

At first he couldn't hit a boulder at twenty yards but he fired that rifle until it was dark and he and Christine felt like they'd gotten away with something alright. And it was fully spring now, too, and the world added its excitement to theirs and it seemed even better and in his child's mind Tim had done fair play, he'd stolen something from his father, tit-for-tat, though not even-steven, not by a mile.

Frank thankfully wasn't there when they stumbled out of the woods later, hungry for dinner. Christine ran off down the road toward home, feet kicking up high behind her as she put on speed to put distance between herself and trouble. Tim snuck the rifle back into the house and shimmied up the walls of the closet and laid it reverently on the shelf. He stood still in his parents' bedroom after looking around for something else to sneak away with. It was messier than he remembered it and it smelled different now. He walked into the front room and it too smelled different, more tobacco and beer. He wandered from the couch to the table to the TV dragging his fingers along dusty surfaces, picking up items and looking at them like they were new. Everything was exactly the same but it was not the home he remembered. He finished his tour in his bedroom. He started when he heard a car on the road, froze a moment in panic, then grabbed the first item he could find that was small enough to carry and sprinted for the smell of someone else's home cooking and his bed on the couch.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	3. Chapter 3

**Bygones – Chapter Three**

Tim stood at the top of hill looking down through the trees to the road. He was breathing heavily, having sprinted up, but not as heavily as the man down at the bottom, bent over, hands on his knees, coughs in fits raking through his body. Frank Gutterson hadn't laid a hand on his son for the better part of a year now. He couldn't catch him. Tim had grown and he could run; Frank had smoked his lungs into dried jerky. The last time he'd managed to get hold of him he'd cornered him in the house then his size made up the difference and he'd gotten a few bruises in before Tim fought clear. Tim was wiser now, and out of reach.

"Give me back my goddamned money!" Frank roared, starting a fresh bout of coughing.

"Come get it," Tim taunted. "What? You can't? Maybe it's 'cause you spent too much of it already on smokes."

Frank had given his son one positive inheritance, a deep-seated aversion to smoking. All of his friends were picking up the habit now, but not Tim. He had a daily reminder of the ill effects, a walking billboard for public health that disgusted him more than the photos of blackened lungs and malignant tongue tumors. Even if smoking were a healthy habit, Tim wouldn't indulge just to be as different from his father as possible. He flipped him the finger, turned and jogged out of sight into the forest, confident that his father wouldn't follow.

Most days Frank couldn't be bothered even getting up, no energy for chasing, he'd just yell threats. But today Tim had pushed it. He walked into the house while his father was on the couch watching TV and eating the remains of the dinner Tim had cooked the night before, sauntered over to the hooks on the wall, pulled Frank's wallet out of his jacket and pulled out the bills, all in plain sight. He'd overheard a comment on the street about 'that poor boy' and it pissed him off and made him reckless. He didn't need pity; he needed money. So he went straight home and took some and stirred it up good, for $15. And that plus what he had from his Saturday job would get him groceries for a few days and a new box of cheap ammo for the rifle.

Tim always needed money. The fridge was always empty. He was old enough now to be embarrassed about eating at the Nickells' house too often so he cooked for himself when he could get food. He was sleeping back in his own room too, a teenager now and wanting privacy. Some mornings Mrs. Nickell would find him on her couch if Frank had his friends over or if things were tense. She worried about them together in that house, Tim and his father, but they mostly left each other alone and kept different schedules. It was Frank's habit to sleep in well past when Tim left for high school in the morning and he was gone for the night before Tim got back.

They would cross paths occasionally, warily, and any violence was usually triggered by money. Tim had found all Frank's hiding places, knew when in the month the check came and had become adept at sneaking into the bedroom while Frank was asleep to rifle through his pockets. It had become a dangerous game, seeing how much he could get away with before Frank turned on him, then he'd run until Frank coughed himself sick. Tim would stay away a few days, camp out on the Nickells' couch then go back again until the next time.

Tim jogged a ways farther into the forest. It was quiet and he needed quiet today. He emptied his pockets and counted his cash and planned out what he'd buy tomorrow. He put enough for a box of rifle ammunition in one pocket and the grocery money in the other then wandered through the woods a while longer calming down. His plans for the rest of the evening were set for him. He'd end up in time for dinner in the Nickells' kitchen, help with the cleaning up and sit and watch a baseball game until bedtime.

He opened the door and called in, "Mrs. Nickell?"

"Hey, Tim."

"Hey."

She looked up at him, dismayed that she was once again the shortest person in the house. "Have you eaten yet?"

"No," he said, looked down at his muddy shoes and kicked them off, leaving them on the porch. "Can I stay tonight?"

"Of course."

* * *

The Sheriff showed up at the school at the bell the next day and pulled Tim out of the crowd of teens escaping classes. Tim was at the receiving end of some jibes from the other kids when Sheriff Henley put a hand on his shoulder and led him toward his car.

"What'd you do, Gutterson?" and, "Hey Gutterson, they find your pot plants?"

Tim jammed his hands deep in his pockets and went along calmly.

"Hey," he said as a greeting to the Sheriff when they were out of ear shot, then turned around walking backward and glared at the kids still yelling taunts.

"Hey Tim, how's it going?" asked the Sheriff, friendly as usual. He eyed the rabble still throwing out comments. "Those kids bother you much?"

Tim grinned. "Those are my friends," he explained.

"Right. Of course." Sheriff Henley grinned back. "Should've known."

Tim looked down at his feet, waiting for it. Finally he asked, "Did something happen to…"

At the same time the Sheriff said, "Everything good?"

Doug knew what Tim hoped to hear and wished he could oblige him. He didn't really need to know how things were with Tim, only asking out of habit. Millie kept him informed. He got to the point.

"Your father was in after lunch complaining that you're stealing his money."

"Oh," Tim was disappointed that there wasn't more to it and it showed. He cocked his head to one side and made a face. "Yeah, I've been taking his money when I can. So what about it? He's taken mine before. And there's never anything to eat in the house so I buy food with it. I know some of the money he gets is supposed be for me and it's not fair that the Nickells are always giving me dinners and stuff and..."

"Tim," the Sheriff interrupted the rising anger, held out his hands, calming. "First off, I couldn't care less if you were taking money from Frank. In fact, I hope you are. And second, don't you worry about Millie and Steve Nickell. I was talking to Steve just last week and he was saying how much Millie enjoys having you around. And I know Steve likes the help, especially at hunting season. He says you've got good eyes."

Tim tried not to look pleased but he stood a little taller with the praise. There wasn't much he liked more than hunting with Mr. Nickell and he worked hard to be an asset not a burden when they went out. And Mr. Nickell had a nicer rifle than his father's. He liked to shoot it.

"Look, I know you're back living at Frank's full time, at your father's I mean. Is that going okay?"

Tim shrugged, said, "I hardly see him."

"If he gives you any trouble, you come talk to me, you hear?"

"Yeah, okay. It's fine, though."

"And keep receipts."

"What?" Tim was confused.

"For the groceries," the Sheriff explained. "I'd love to turn this around on him." He smiled, imagining the look on Frank's face, the slow shading to red, the lips blustering soundlessly. "You still working at the garage?"

"Yeah."

"Mr. Nickell got you that job, right?"

"Yeah. I get to help on the cars sometimes, too. I like doing that. Mr. Nickell's going to let me change the oil in his truck this weekend."

"He's not letting you drive, is he?"

"No. I can't drive. I don't have a license," Tim replied, not meeting the Sheriff's eye.

"When do you turn sixteen?"

"Not soon enough."

"You'd still need a car."

"I'll steal one. I looked up how to do it on the internet."

The Sheriff put his hands on his hips and huffed in exasperation, "Don't say that around me."

Tim grinned. "I'm joking."

Sheriff Henley narrowed his eyes at him. "Uh-huh." He felt a flush of guilt. He'd made himself a promise to keep an eye on this boy after his mother died, but things never worked out that way. "Well, come on, I'll drive you home."

"That's alright, I was going to go buy some groceries. I don't want to keep you."

"I'll wait."

"And I have to stop at the garage," he hedged.

The Sheriff persisted. "That's fine."

"Okay then, thanks," Tim said, a bit hesitant, wondering what was behind the courtesy. He ran around the back of the car and got in.

At the garage Tim hopped out, dashed inside and gave some cash to the young mechanic that he worked with on Saturdays. He was over twenty and old enough to buy rifle ammunition and would do it for him, passing a box along during his shift on the weekends if Tim could get some money to him in time. Tim made an excuse to the Sheriff, mumbling something about checking his work schedule.

The Sheriff sat in the car and made some phone calls while Tim hurried around the grocery store then he drove him home. He gave Tim a crash course on his rights on the way up the hill and reminded him that he was welcome at the office if he ever needed anything, help or a place to sleep or a meal then dropped him at the house after making sure that Frank wasn't there.

"Stay out of his way for a couple of days, okay?" he said before Tim closed the door to the car. "I'm going to have a chat with him about giving you money for groceries."

"Good luck," Tim offered wryly, with a face to match. He was realistic about the Sheriff's chances at success.

After he put the food away, hiding a small supply just for himself, Tim collected up some clothes and headed to the neighbors' with a carton of milk and some cream for Mrs. Nickell's coffee.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the delay posting. I tried, but I can't write two stories at the same time.**  
**

* * *

**Bygones – Chapter Four**

She taught Math and History and filled in for the English teacher whenever he was away. She could recite lines from whichever Shakespeare play they were studying from memory. She was demanding of her pupils and unwaveringly fair and you couldn't get away with anything in her classroom. She was omniscient. The students were convinced she was a witch, a true witch, even the ones that never had her said as much. She was aloof and solitary, a perfect breeding ground for rumors. She was a lesbian according to some, and according to others she was stagnant with bitterness, a jilted bride like Miss Havisham. It had even been suggested that she had turned her husband into a toad. No one had a nickname for her though, always she was 'Miss Hall' and universally respected.

"Tim Gutterson," she called, her voice piercing through the lunch mob scene though she didn't raise it one decibel above normal. "A word, please."

His friends murmured sympathetically as he pushed his way over toward her classroom. He didn't dare ignore the summons, followed her silently through the door with a quick, mournful glance over his shoulder at Christine. Christine's mouth smiled; her eyes were all worry.

"I wanted to talk to you about your math test," Miss Hall said after she shut the door on the cacophony in the hallway and collapsed the room into a tomb-like silence.

Tim remembered writing it, thought he did okay despite the number of classes he'd missed.

"You did very well, considering," she said, managing to keep the sarcasm out of her tone. "The only marks you lost were on a topic we covered one day when you decided to skip class."

Tim swallowed hard. Which day was that? He wondered if she could read his thoughts – it would explain a lot. He dragged a hand across his mouth and leaned on a desk in the front row.

Miss Hall stood watching him a moment, looking for something but not giving anything away. Tim wet his lips nervously and watched her too, waiting. She apparently saw something or didn't see something, Tim would never know, that determined her next move. Decisively, she walked to the blackboard, picked up a piece of chalk and wrote out a question, turned back to him and explained how to answer it and the theory behind it. She took a brush and methodically and deliberately wiped the board clean, then wrote out a second question and held out her hand, open, with the chalk. He hesitated, uncertain, knowing instinctively that she was offering an opportunity, though for what he wasn't sure, and this was his one chance at it. He walked over and took the chalk and stared at the problem.

She had changed it slightly, put a trick in it. He saw it and compensated. Math came easily to him; it was logical. It made a whole lot more sense than the world did - orderly, no secret motives, no emotions, nothing left spinning, nothing susceptible to the weather. He solved the equation and looked at her expectantly.

She smiled and nodded and said, "There. Now you'll get those marks on the final examination. I expect you to do well in my classes, Timothy. Don't disappoint me." She could do that, use a person's full name and not make it sound stupid and not make it sound like she was putting on airs. "Now, go on and eat." She waved him out.

He ran down the hall to the lunch room and slid along the bench, crashing into one of his friends. Christine, on the other side of the table, passed him half her sandwich which he took sheepishly. Somebody else rolled an apple down to him. There was always an apple on offer. Mothers packed them diligently, but nobody ever ate their fruit at lunch.

"What was that all about?" one of the kids asked.

Tim shrugged. "I don't know. She showed me some math I missed."

"Was she mad?" Christine still looked worried.

"No, honestly. She was pretty okay about it."

"Does she _ever_ get mad?" one of the other kids asked.

That was enough to start a fresh round of gossip about Miss Hall and they discussed her in hushed tones until the bell. Tim stayed out of the conversation. He couldn't have explained it to any of them but he felt that she had taken him into her confidence, trusted him with a secret, and speaking ill of her now would be disloyal.

* * *

"Are you sure that's it?" Mr. Nickell asked. He couldn't keep the concern out of his voice. He wanted desperately to sound certain about Tim's abilities, give him confidence where others wouldn't, but Steve Nickell was a cautious man. Tim had just finished changing the oil in his truck and Steve was nervous now about starting it.

The disdainful look on Tim's face, the reckless certainty, was pure teenager. "Throw me the keys," he offered, hand out, cocky. Steve did and Tim caught them easily, climbed into the cab and turned over the engine. It sounded like it always did. Steve grinned; Tim rolled his eyes.

"Well, look at that. Nothing's smoking. You want to drive a bit?" Steve offered.

"Better not," Tim replied soberly, making a face. He turned off the engine. "I think the Sheriff is onto us. He asked if you were letting me drive when I saw him Thursday."

"You saw the Sheriff on Thursday? What did he want?"

Tim shrugged. "Someone said I was stealing money."

"Who?" Mr. Nickell asked, taking the news as a personal affront.

"My father."

"Oh, hell." Mr. Nickell sighed and looked around the yard, wondering what to say to that. "Hell," he repeated. "Look, Tim, don't piss Frank off. If you need money, just ask."

"That's not fair. He should be paying."

Mr. Nickell looked down at his feet this time since there were no words to be found around the yard. "Who says it has to be fair?" he countered. "You just saved me thirty-five bucks on an oil change and I haven't had to split wood in two years. Don't you think that's worth something?" He leaned in the window of the truck so he could speak more quietly. "You worry Mrs. Nickell when you go at Frank. Could you try to stay out of his way?"

"Yeah, okay."

The answer lacked conviction but Steve knew better than to try to talk sense to a fifteen-year-old. He'd already raised two boys and a girl through it. "And don't think you're getting out of cleaning the rifle just 'cause you're working longer hours now on Saturdays." He was ribbing him, lightening the conversation again. He knew Tim liked doing the maintenance on the rifle and Tim knew that he knew. "Sure you don't want to go for a drive?" Mr. Nickell offered a second time.

"I dunno if we should."

"Awww, come on now, Sheriff Henley's harmless. He wouldn't care. What kid living on the back roads isn't driving at fifteen?" Mr. Nickell could see that Tim didn't need much more convincing so he opened the door on the passenger side, got in and buckled up, grinning. Tim was grinning now too, very unteenager-like. He started up the truck again, put it in reverse and backed out of the yard.

They spotted the car at the same time when they pulled back onto their road a half hour later and drove up to the house. Frank Gutterson couldn't get up enough energy now even to walk the few hundred yards down the hill to the Nickell's; he always drove. Tim pulled in and swore softly, "Shit."

"I wonder what he wants," Steve mused, then added for Tim, "Watch your swearing around Mrs. Nickell."

"I know."

Steve nodded and got out first; Tim hesitated a minute in the truck, not wanting to face Frank today. He could see him standing on the porch talking to Mrs. Nickell through the screen door. She never invited him in; it was a point of pride with her. Frank turned to watch them pull up and stepped heavily down to the yard to meet them. He dug a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit up. Mr. Nickell called up a greeting to his wife and offered a casual hand out to Frank.

"Hey Frank, what can I do for you?" Steve asked putting himself squarely between father and son as Tim came around from behind the truck.

"Just stopped by to say hi – be neighborly," Frank answered in a growl. He always growled now with the emphysema and it made everything he said sound threatening. Tim would be the first to point out that his bark was worse than his bite but Mrs. Nickell wasn't so sure.

Frank gestured dismissively at Tim. "He's not old enough to drive," he said, glaring at Steve.

"Since when are you the concerned parent?" Tim stepped up between the two men. "And I am old enough," he lied easily. "I turned sixteen last month."

Frank didn't like being made to look stupid and found something else to criticize. "Nice of _my son_ to do work on your truck for you. You paying him?"

"He don't have to pay me," Tim intercepted again and continued spitefully, "He feeds me. It's his privilege to get my help with things."

"Shut your smart mouth!"

"Sorry, but you don't get to tell me what to do." Tim fell into the routine – keep pushing till the coughing starts.

"You get yourself home and stop bothering these people. There are chores for you to do there."

Tim took another step closer to Frank, daring a reaction, tilted his head and said, "Fine, but I'll take payment up front from you."

"Tim," Millie interceded, pushing open the screen and giving him a 'no arguments' look, "I need a word with you."

"You can do _my_ car tomorrow," Frank demanded as Tim walked toward the house.

"Thirty dollars."

"I ain't paying you."

"The garage is open on Monday. Take it there."

Frank grabbed at him, catching only air and anger as Tim dodged the hand easily and sauntered up the steps. He turned and opened his mouth to bait Frank again but Mrs. Nickell had come fully out of the house at his point and took hold of Tim by the arm with authority. "Inside, now," she whispered harshly and pulled. Tim was all defiance until he caught the fear in her eyes and his anger shrank down sheepishly. He let her lead him into the house and on through the back to the kitchen.

"Sorry," Tim mumbled and sat at the table.

Her eyes were stormy, fixed angrily on the door down the hall, but she softened quickly, stepped over to Tim and ran a hand affectionately through his hair. "I don't blame you," she said. She turned to the stove to put the kettle on and started pulling out the fixings for lunch. "Do you want coffee or tea?" she asked, deciding he was plenty old enough and giving him the choice.

"Coffee," he answered quickly.

She sighed. "I figured."

Tim stood up to help and she turned to him, hand on her hip, "Does he really not know when your birthday is?"

He screwed up his face at the question and realized as she asked it that he really didn't care. "I doubt it. Can we keep it that way?" he requested, adding humorously, "Information is power." He smiled and she felt it was alright to smile with him.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	5. Chapter 5

**Bygones – Chapter Five**

The high school kids would hang out at their spot in the forest on a Saturday night, build a fire, drink beer, split off in couples and sneak away from the crowd. Tim did his share of sneaking off and exploring but never with Christine. He didn't think of her that way; she'd been his friend since the beginning. He knew her so well that he couldn't look at her any way but as his buddy until the night one of the seniors started pawing at her at the clearing. He started looking then, looking at what the guy was pawing at and it pissed him off. He gave her the cold shoulder the following week but she needled and cajoled until he relented and when they met up the next Saturday to go shooting, he'd mostly forgiven her.

She packed the food; he packed the ammo. Scrambling over logs and rocks along the makeshift path up the hill behind Tim's house, they laughed about their friends' antics at school, complained about teachers and homework and jobs. Eventually they found a place far enough out of the way to ensure privacy and sat contentedly against a tree eating sandwiches then Tim lined up a dozen cans and they took turns with the rifle.

Tim sent the last can flying. He hadn't missed one since they started. Christine whooped in appreciation, encouraging a shy grin. He set the rifle against a tree and walked down range with her to set up some more targets. She was attempting to balance a particularly abused soup tin on a platform of moss but it wasn't cooperating and kept falling over. Tim had already lined up his share so he smirked at her and made smart-ass comments until she finally got frustrated at the can and annoyed with Tim's taunts and started whipping acorns at him. He stopped one from bouncing off his head by throwing up an arm but threw himself off balance in the process, lurching into the log and knocking over all the cans he'd carefully set up. He scrambled to catch them as they tumbled off and started rolling down the incline.

"Nice one," he grumped, collecting them in his shirt. "Remind me to find some new cans. These ones are shot to shit."

Tim was patiently lining up the tins again when Christine, bored now, plunked herself on the log, shifting it, rolling it enough to send her and the cans spilling over the back.

"Christine! Jesus!"

Sprawled on the forest floor, she laughed at him while he chased the tins a second time. "I'm tired of shooting today," she said, eyeing him upside down, not bothering to get up.

Tim dropped the cans in a pile on the ground and sat down in a huff. Eventually he fell back, too, stretching out his legs, giving in to the urge to do nothing on a Saturday and they both stared up to the tree tops. There were no sounds except for the rustling of the leaves, and then only the ones closest to the open sky, playing with the breezes that ran their fingers over the highest branches. After a time an acorn arced in the air and plunked on his chest. He looked over at Christine. She was watching him.

"What?" he demanded.

She sat up and shuffled over, looking solemn, asked, "Your daddy hasn't caught on yet, has he, that we're using his rifle all the time?"

"No, he's hardly around," Tim assured her. "And I've never seen him with it anyway. I don't think he remembers it's even there."

Christine linked her fingers together and dropped her hands between her knees. "I don't want to get you in trouble, is all. Remember the last time?"

"It's fine. He's too sick now. He hasn't come at me in a while. Besides, he spends all his time at the pool hall."

"What's wrong with him, anyway?" she asked.

"His lungs are shit. He's supposed to quit smoking, but..." He shrugged.

She nodded at the diagnosis, stared at him a moment then quickly dropped her eyes when he looked at her and smiled reassurance. "Mama met up with him in town the other day," she said, talking to her hands. "He said something to her about me being all grown up now. I think it freaked her out. She told me to stay away from your house."

Tim pulled himself up abruptly and crossed his legs. "Shit, Christine, she says that every year. So what?" He chose a particularly mangled can from the group and twisted it in his hands until it finally split in half, tossed the pieces back in the pile. "You want to go climbing? I found a new spot. It's not too far."

"Maybe…sure, for a bit," she agreed.

They collected their bags and the rifle and Tim led them across the hill through the forest then turned and climbed up the slope. It was hard to get lost out back of his place as long as you kept your wits about you and stayed to their side of the hill. If a path disappeared, you could just head down the incline and eventually you'd hit the road and if you followed it downhill as well it would lead you to a house or on into town. Today he took her somewhere new, over the ridge and down the back side. Longer and stronger legs had allowed him to push his exploring farther from home and he spent a good deal of his weekends doing just that, wandering and looking for new places to climb. After a while they arrived at a cut where the land was too steep to hold soil and the rocks were exposed, cliff faces on both sides of the narrow gully, not too high, good for climbing without gear.

Christine stopped abruptly and reached out to pull on Tim's arm. "Isn't this where they found your mama?" She looked spooked, turned her wide eyes on him.

He shrugged and looked around. It fit the description but there were a hundred places like this in the hills around his house. He didn't want to think about it today. "I doubt it." He shrugged again, trying to shake off the feelings curling up in his gut. "It's not. Don't be stupid. Come on." He set down his gear and slipped out of his jacket.

Christine took her cue from him, dropped her pack and pointed to a short pitch, maybe twenty feet. "I'll do that one."

Tim pointed to the opposite side, closer to fifty feet. "I'll do that."

Turning her mouth down and looking crossly at him, she snapped, "Don't be stupid. That's getting dangerous."

"That's not dangerous," he dismissed, reckless. "Not if you know what you're doing. It's fun."

He wiped his hands dry on his pants and started up the rock face. Christine crossed her arms in annoyance and watched. When he was more than halfway up he found a good hold and swung out on one hand just to show off and scare her. She was obligingly angry and swore at him. "Goddamn it, Tim! Get down. I ain't carrying you back if you fall and break something."

Tim was laughing, confident, happy and exhilarated, enjoying her attention. Christine was still angry when he had finished and sat waving to her from the top, his legs dangling over the edge. She walked around and up the slope behind to meet him, sat stiffly next to him dangling her feet over the face as well, then leaned back on one arm and started talking about her new boyfriend, knowing it would get a reaction. It killed his mood in a hurry, reminded him that he hadn't quite forgiven her yet.

He stood up and brushed the dirt off his pants and gave her his opinion. "He's an asshole," Tim said, spite dripping from each word. "If his ego was any bigger you could see it from space. Maybe you already can."

He left her sitting there and stomped back down to pick up their gear and started for home. He didn't say it to her but Christine's new boyfriend reminded him of his father, at least of how Mrs. Nickell described him when he asked once what his mother could possibly have seen in such a loser. Mrs. Nickell had replied matter-of-factly that Frank Gutterson was a big, strong, good-looking loser and quite the ladies' man in his day. Up until now Tim couldn't understand it, and he still couldn't, not really, thinking about Christine with that senior.

"He is not an asshole," she called out, running to catch up with him.

"Oh please. All he does is brag about himself. How do you stand him?"

"He's fun," she answered, walking up beside him and punching his shoulder, hard. "He's got a car and he's _hot_."

And there it was – a high school boy's revelation – that girls like good-looks and money, and smarts and personality take a back seat to hormones.

"Fine – he's a tall asshole on wheels," he countered peevishly, turning to face her, "I can totally see why that would make you like him."

"You're the one being an asshole. You're just jealous."

"Am not. Jesus, that's how you see it? That I'm jealous of an _asshole_?"

"Uh-huh." She pushed past him and took the lead on the path, picking up the pace and marching, silent and angry, back to the road.

They parted coolly, she to her house and he to his. He sat in his bedroom cleaning the rifle and thought about it all. Maybe he was jealous – he couldn't tell. His emotions weren't house-trained yet, still not hard-wired, and every day was a confusion of feelings, free floating. He put the rifle back in its place and pushed thoughts of Christine out of his head, but somehow he was more determined than ever to get his driver's license as soon as legally possible.

She stopped eating lunch with them after that, started sitting at the seniors' table, and that suited him just fine. He was still brooding. Another grade eleven girl slid into the space left by Christine, slid over half her sandwich, and smiled shyly.

* * *

Christine made cupcakes at home and brought them in on his birthday. She was tired of not speaking to him and sat down beside him at lunch, giving him a hug and passing around the treats. Born late in the year, Tim was one of the last to turn 16 and his friends decided to get rowdy about it. He crawled under the table, dying of embarrassment when they sang 'Happy Birthday' and made enough noise that the lunch room supervisor had finally come over, smiling, and shushed them.

The Nickells had given him a quiet party the night before, early on purpose, with a card and the cash to pay the driver's license administration fee and a promise to let him take the test on their truck when the time came. And the next day he left school as soon as the bell rang and headed to the licensing office.

He didn't realize you needed a parent to stand beside you and sign if you weren't eighteen. He had everything else. He'd read through the test booklet and spent every day after school for a week hunting through the house until he found the documents he needed, his birth certificate, his social security card, a report card from school with his name and address. He was ready. But he didn't realize he'd need Frank.

The clerk was sympathetic. There were no strangers in Campton, too small a town, but he wouldn't complete the application for the learner's permit without a parent to sign for it. Tim walked out and sat on the curb.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	6. Chapter 6

**Bygones – Chapter Six**

"Why the hell would I do that?" Frank didn't even look up from the television so Tim walked over and stood in front of it.

"You _have_ to come down with me," he stated forcefully. "You have to sign so I can get my learner's permit – so I can drive."

"Do I look stupid or something?" Frank demanded.

Tim wisely held his tongue.

"I ain't signing nothing for you," Frank continued, speaking lazily, content at finally having the upper hand. "You'd just take off with the car all the time. Why the hell would I want to help you get your license?"

Tim clenched his teeth hard and glared at the man on the couch, his vision so clouded with anger that he couldn't focus on anything but the burning end of the lit cigarette that flared up like a temper when Frank gave it his attention. Tim felt dirty for standing there begging, felt like the butt end of that cigarette. He tried again.

"If I could drive, I could do the shopping," Tim pressed, volume rising with his frustration, impatient to make his father understand that this was important, "and keep food in the house for your sorry ass. And I'll do the maintenance on the car for free and pay for my own gas." He counted the points off on his fingers, determined to make Frank see reason. He was ready to sell his soul to the devil to get a signature but he couldn't hide his desperation and Frank smelled blood and smiled.

"I ain't signing nothing," he repeated, low and mean. "You're a lying piece of shit. You think I'd trust you to hold your word? You're not getting your hands on my car." Frank was growing tired of the conversation and was trying to see around Tim to the show he was watching. "Now get the fuck out of the way of the TV."

Tim squeezed his eyes shut, but too late to avoid one tear escaping into view, frustration leaking out. He wiped at it quickly but Frank saw.

"What, you crying now?"

Two years is a long time at sixteen and that was the sentence that Frank delivered smiling as he lit up another cigarette with the last. Tim watched the red glow and the smoke rising, his head buzzing with disbelief and anger. He pulled his eyes away, searching for something in the room to beat a man with as Frank ground the old butt into the ashtray. A car horn sounded outside and Tim started and turned to the noise.

"There's my ride," Frank said, pushing off the couch. He put a shoulder into Tim as he moved past to the door, pushing him off balance enough to pull him back to reality with a jolt. Tim dug his hands into his hair then dropped his arms in defeat and walked to his room. He grabbed a jacket and headed into the kitchen, filled a knapsack with supplies then marched into Frank's bedroom and pulled the rifle from the shelf.

"Hey, what are you doing in my room?" Frank roared. "Get out of there."

Tim marched past him and headed for the door.

"Put that rifle back!"

"Fuck you, loser," Tim spat, not slowing down.

"And I know you're drinking my beer!" Frank aimed the parting shot at his back.

Tim took the porch steps in one leap and kept going, veering off into the forest. The sound of Frank's coughing followed him and he started running from it, but it stuck with him, caught up in the buzzing still messing with his thoughts. He couldn't shake it until he'd managed to calm himself down a while later and then the buzzing and the coughing ceased and the silence was a void filling in slowly with his disappointment. He sat on the ground, crossed his legs, propped his elbows on his knees and dropped his head in his hands, and tried to think. He couldn't see any way around his dilemma except shooting the man and that would bring only temporary relief. He wasn't that stupid.

Getting up he trudged farther into the forest, up and over the ridge onto the back side of the hill. He came to the cut where he and Christine had come climbing and set up on the higher face at the top and started shooting at nothing and anything. He would pick a target, a knot in a tree, an old bird's nest, line up front and rear sights, fire and hit his mark almost every time. It calmed him down and when he finally ran low on rounds, he discovered he'd also run low on anger. It was exhausting keeping it up.

His thoughts drifted then to other things and settled for a time on his friend at the garage. Andy was young and fascinating, a college dropout from the west coast trying to find himself, a throw-back from the sixties, and he had a motorcycle. He came into town one day, just like in the story books, and decided to stay for a bit. The owner of the garage was glad to have him; he was a miracle worker with any kind of engine and didn't ask to be paid a fortune for it.

There was some hero-worship going on between Andy and Tim, and Andy took it in stride. He was happy to buy Tim his fix of ammo for the weekends and he listened carefully when Tim described with enthusiasm and in detail what he had learned about rifle upkeep and marksmanship. And Andy would patiently teach Tim what he knew about car engines and on slow days he would explain the book with the strange title that he carried around, scuffed and well-read, in his back pocket, _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance_. Tim was fascinated by the idea of cool thoughts mixed with the gritty work of engine maintenance. It spoke to him. He thought about it as he aimed at another knot in a tree, wondered if anyone had considered writing a book titled _Zen and the Art of Shooting the Shit Out of Stuff_.

He snorted, meaning to laugh but it came out wrong, just shy of a sob. He was tired and the light was too, dulling quickly into the evening. Laying out his sleeping bag back a ways from the cliff edge he slid into it without bothering with the zipper. He set the rifle aside and ate some food out of the pack then put his head down on his arm and drifted off to sleep.

He woke early the next morning thinking about Frank's parting shot – accusing him of stealing his beer. It was bullshit. On more than one occasion Tim had come home to find one or two of Frank's pool hall buddies sitting on the couch drinking and Frank nowhere to be found. Tim had no doubt where the missing beer went. And so Tim awoke to the idea that maybe he should start drinking his father's beer since he was getting blamed for it anyway. It seemed like a good way to make up for not being able to drive. He was sorry he hadn't thought of it himself, that the idea had come from Frank, but he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. No, in fact, he was going kick this gift horse in the nuts. He left his sleeping bag under a tree and headed back to his house.

Tim waited up the hill, watching until Frank drove away, then went in and made himself some coffee and sat at the table cleaning the rifle. It wasn't a particularly good rifle, and it was older, but it was all he had and he took care of it. When he was finished he set it back on the shelf. He had used every bit of ammunition he had yesterday and though it felt good at the time, he wished now he'd kept some. He was out of money and wouldn't be able to get any until he got paid again.

School was the furthest thing from his mind this Thursday. He made himself lunch and then cleaned out the fridge of beer and the cupboards of food and hauled the lot up the hill, hid some and took the rest with him back over the ridge to the cut and got drunk.

* * *

Tim had cut back on skipping classes after his short meeting with Miss Hall, especially her classes. She had rearranged the desks in her Math room and assigned seats and Tim found himself in the second row from the front and forced to be more engaged as a consequence. When the same thing happened in History, English and Physics, he suspected her influence. He started feeling the responsibility of her expectations and tried harder. His marks improved. And so she noticed when he missed the next three days of school after his birthday.

"Christine," Miss Hall spoke into the quiet before the bell rang, before the school emptied for the weekend. "A word after class, please?"

As everyone cleared out Christine walked up to the front and stood at the teacher's desk. Miss Hall cleaned the board and finally turned when the door closed after the last student.

"Sorry to keep you, Christine," she started, "especially on a Friday." She smiled and Christine relaxed a little. "Do you know why Tim hasn't been at school the last few days?"

"Mama says I'm not allowed to go by his house," Christine replied, dodging responsibility.

"But you did."

Christine spoke to the floor. "Mr. Gutterson's car was there. I didn't want to go knocking."

"And I'm not going to ask you to. It's just that you're his closest friend and I was hoping you might have some idea where he is. He hasn't been in class since Tuesday."

Christine looked out the window and considered. She had been worried and that's why she had walked past Tim's place on the way home yesterday hoping to see him. Most of the time she and Tim could happily ignore the situation at his house, turn a blind eye to the simmering trouble, but the dynamic had changed now that Tim was older. He was taking more risks, purposefully rattling at the bear's cage. She didn't want to be there when Frank broke out of his lethargy. It happened once, and once was enough. It upset her. It felt like cowardice spending less and less time with Tim and that upset her, too. She offered what little help she could.

"Last I saw him was on his birthday after school. He was heading over to get his learner's permit." She shrugged, felt the denial and fought back tears of frustration and worry.

"His learner's permit?" Miss Hall connected the dots quickly. "He'd need his father there to sign for him, wouldn't he?"

The look of dread on Christine's face at this revelation spoke volumes. "Oh shit, I didn't think about that. I don't think Tim did, either."

Under the circumstances, Miss Hall let the colorful wording slide. It was a good indicator that Christine was unguarded and therefore being honest. "What does he do when he's not at school? Do you know?"

"Mostly he hangs out at the Nickells' or at home if his daddy's not there or he hikes in the woods. He knows it pretty well around the back of his place. He likes to go climb and…and stuff."

"And _stuff_?"

Christine dropped her arms in comical defeat, confessed, "He takes his daddy's rifle and goes shooting." She looked up at Miss Hall, pleading. "Don't tell. He's really good and he's careful and he taught me how to shoot."

Miss Hall regarded her sympathetically. "Don't you worry, Christine, I won't tell unless I have to. I appreciate the information."

Christine smiled meekly and left. Miss Hall stood thinking a moment before tidying her desk. She slid some papers into her bag and walked from the school to see the clerk at the licensing office and then from there to the government building to chat with the Sheriff.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	7. Chapter 7

**Bygones – Chapter Seven**

Fortunately there was a scraggy shrub at the bottom that prevented his head from hitting anything hard and fortunately he'd indulged in some more of his father's beer that afternoon and was surprisingly relaxed falling from the cliff face, but Tim learned the hard way that climbing drunk just wasn't a good idea.

It was his third day out in the woods and he was getting bored so he sprawled in his camping spot at the top of the cliff and had a beer. He wasn't particularly fond of beer yet, but it went down nicely with a spite chaser and he opened another. Then he decided to climb the route he'd first done with Christine. When he made it easily to the top he stopped to admire his abilities and had a third beer then strolled back down to the bottom to try a different route. The second one was an easier climb and when he got to the top he downed a fourth beer and again strolled, a little unevenly this time, to the bottom to try a route to the right of the last one. Four beers were enough for an uninitiated drinker on an empty stomach and the third route was a lot tougher. He got stuck halfway up. Too proud to climb down a few feet and move back to the left, he tried a dynamic move, a short leap to a high handhold, and missed, a drunken miscalculation, and started to freefall. Instinctively he scraped his hands along the rock, frantically searching for another hold and caught a small ledge on the way down. He swung hard on it just long enough to pull his shoulder out of its socket before letting go in agony and falling the last fifteen feet onto the bush, winding himself.

He screamed for air and when the air finally decided it was safe to re-enter his lungs it exploded out again forcefully, forging a single word: "Fuck!"

For a time his shoulder had all of his attention and he drew his knees up tightly and breathed hard, moaning, tears streaming down both cheeks. The second word came out more feebly: "Fuck."

And then he felt stupid. He lay there and cursed himself, holding his arm tightly to his chest and gingerly testing his other muscles and joints.

He had stripped down to his t-shirt and jeans to climb and was shivering now in the cool air in the shadow of the rocks. He wiped his face dry with the bottom of his shirt and looked over at his jacket and sweatshirt in a pile twenty feet away. It seemed farther than that when he tried to get there, cradling his arm, every movement jarring his shoulder and sending jolts of pain to his stomach. He threw up the beer and felt a bit better, carefully worked his hoodie over his head and then pushed his good arm into his jacket. By the time he was done he was sweating and swearing liberally. He sank to his knees and curled up on himself, steadying his breathing. He then looked up the hill to the ridge line, licked his lips anxiously and dropped his chin on his chest. Walking home seemed an impossible task. But it was late in the afternoon and he knew he had to try so he stood and started back, one shaky step at a time.

* * *

"Oh God," Millie let out when she opened the door and saw Sheriff Henley. "Is everything okay?" She pushed the screen wide to let the Sheriff in.

"Why do folks always say that when I show up?"

"Come on, now, Doug. You wouldn't be at my door on a Friday afternoon unless it was business. It's Tim, isn't it? Oh God," she repeated, talking nervously. "Tell me he's alright. I haven't seen him since his birthday. I try not to interfere too much with him but I'm getting concerned."

"You're right, Millie, I'm here about Tim and you've answered my question. I was going to ask if he'd been by the last few days." He stepped inside and took off his hat but didn't follow her to the kitchen. She stopped and turned around, waiting. "One of his teachers came to my office after school to report him missing," the Sheriff continued. "No one's seen him since Tuesday. Well, Frank said he saw him Wednesday morning, but…" He let the sentence and the thought hang, knowing they were both thinking about Tim's mother, knowing neither of them wanted to consider any possibilities yet other than teenage antics. "Does Tim still come around your place much during the week?"

"He's trying hard to act independent but he usually shows up a couple of evenings for meals and company and such, and he's here often enough on the weekends, too."

The Sheriff looked at her thoughtfully. "I think three days is too long, Millie. I'm going to start a search. His friend from school said he spends a lot of time in the forest?"

"That'd be Christine, I reckon," Millie said. "She'd know. They'll go off all day in the woods, those two." She was wringing the rag in her hands. "I should've sent Steve looking yesterday. He'll be home soon. He knows the woods behind us well enough. He'll go out."

Sheriff Henley nodded absently and headed back out the door, planning the search in his head. He turned around halfway down the porch steps and added, "Miss Hall tells me they wouldn't give him his permit at the licensing office."

Millie drew back, confused. "Why not?"

"Frank has to be there to sign for him."

"What? Well, _that's_ never going to happen. Since when did they start that?" Millie demanded indignantly and not waiting for a reply, continued, "Dammit, Doug, that was important to him. Can't me or Steve sign it?"

"Not unless you're his legal guardian."

Mrs. Nickell hugged herself, chilly and distressed. "I should've pushed for it back then. I think Frank would've happily given him up. I just felt it was wrong taking him, you know?"

Doug smiled. "I think we all hope for the best in people. Maybe it's a survival instinct."

Steve Nickell pulled in as they finished talking. He took in the situation before he'd turned off the truck. "Doug," he greeted and huffed out a sigh. "Let me grab my flashlight. I was going to go looking for him if he wasn't here when I got back. Did you try Frank's?"

"He says he hasn't seen him since Wednesday."

"Okay." Steve walked quickly past him to the house.

The Sheriff turned in the opposite direction, heading to his car. "I'm going to round up some help."

* * *

Mr. Nickell followed the paths farther and farther up the hill, calling out every few minutes. It didn't take him too long to find his wayward boy. He heard his shouts returned and headed quickly in the direction of the voice. Tim was propped up against a tree, sitting very still and that was unusual enough to make Steve concerned. The waning evening light made it impossible to see much detail but it was clear that Tim was hurt and favoring an arm. Mr. Nickell crouched down in front of him and tried to make out his face. There was a bruise forming on one cheek.

"Jesus Christ," Steve hissed. "Did Frank do this?"

"No," Tim replied defensively, adamant. "I wouldn't _let_ him. This is all me being _stupid_." His voice caught.

Steve relaxed a little, relieved. He reached over and tousled Tim's hair then sat back on his heels and frowned. "Do I smell beer?"

"You can smell it?" Tim asked, horrified, his eyes rounding out.

Steve started chuckling. "Yeah, and I promise you if I can, Mrs. Nickell will be onto you before we even get back to the house. I think she's got blood hound in her."

"Shit."

"Are you drunk?"

"Uh-uh. Not anymore. Barfing fixed that – that and falling."

"Is that how you got hurt? You fell?"

Tim nodded.

"How far did you fall?"

"I don't know. Twenty-five, thirty feet maybe."

Steve shook his head allowing a little exasperation in place of the worry. "Tree?"

"Rock climbing."

"Rock climbing?" he repeated, incredulous. "You're right, that is stupid. Your arm hurt?" Mr. Nickell nodded at the empty sleeve.

"I think I pulled my shoulder out."

Steve grimaced in sympathy. "Well, you idiot, let's get you to a doctor." He fished a mint out of his pocket, brushed off the lint and handed it over. "Here, Millie's upset enough. Hopefully the arm, bruises and blood'll distract her and she won't notice the beer breath."

Tim snorted at the attempt at humor then hung his head. "I'm sorry."

"You keep that face on and she'll forgive you anything. Come on, best get you up and moving. Can you walk okay?"

"Yeah, I was just taking a break."

Steve helped Tim to his feet and they worked their way down the hill. Tim's shoulder had settled into a continuous throbbing now that allowed the other bruises and scrapes to get their share of his attention and he limped a bit because of it. Mr. Nickell offered support, physical and moral, keeping Tim's attention away from his injuries with sarcastic comments about the stupidity of boys. It was dark by the time they finished the trek home. Millie had turned on the back light and they could see her outline at the door. She waved and disappeared into the house and was on the phone with the Sheriff when they walked in.

* * *

The doctor at the clinic had popped the shoulder back in place, the tug and the push accompanied by some ripe language from Tim, and then he recommended they head to a hospital for X-rays. He was worried about internal injuries, maybe a concussion and "whatever other medical oddities moronic teenage boys are prone to."

Tim accepted all the adjectives without complaint. He felt he deserved every one.

With the bruising now blossoming, covering every inch of his back, Sheriff Henley insisted on talking to Tim alone.

"You fell?" he inquired suspiciously, wanting to hear it himself, watching for the telltale signs of lying common with domestic abuse.

"Honestly, I did. I probably left a good dent in the ground at the base of the cliff with a clear imprint of my butt and the label on my jeans, and I think I killed a bush. So much for 'leave no trace.'" Tim smiled – it was easier now with a good dose of pain killers – and tried to appear sincere.

Sheriff Henley didn't smile back. "A lot of kids, Tim, they try to protect their parents, even when they get violent and hurt them." There was a long and thick pause while the two kept eye contact. Tim tried hard not to blink. "Where were you climbing?" Doug finally asked, interrupting the stare-down.

"Over the ridge. There's a good cut – a nice rock face, you know? My pack and sleeping bag are still there and all."

"Your pack and sleeping bag? Were you planning on camping a while? Maybe staking a squatter's claim?"

Tim blinked, chewed his bottom lip. Whatever reasons he had to hide out in the woods seemed rather silly now.

"You'll take me there and show me when you're feeling up to it."

Tim nodded then remembered the beer and chewed his lip a little harder.

"Okay then." Sheriff Henley straightened up and planted his hands on his hips. "Mr. Nickell and I are going to take you down to Jackson to the hospital."

Tim nodded again, drugged but sober despite it.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	8. Chapter 8

**Bygones – Chapter Eight**

It took time to get through the X-rays; the emergency room doctor was thorough. And afterward he subjected Tim to a lengthy lecture which included a verbal catalog of the horrific injuries from climbing accidents he'd seen in his examining room. "You are a lucky young man. You could've ended up in a wheelchair or suffered a serious head injury and become a babbling idiot." He finished up his diatribe with a stern look and whacked his patient lightly on the head with his clipboard.

"Now, now, don't be too hard on him," Steve commented as he took hold of Tim's elbow to help him off the examining table. "He's already an idiot but fortunately he doesn't babble much." He paused then added, "It'd be sad to see him start."

Tim seemed determined, though not consciously, to prove Steve's description of him correct. The only thing he said while they collected the Sheriff from the waiting room and headed to the car was, "I'm starving."

The Sheriff raised his eyebrows in awe of the constitution of a sixteen-year-old, glanced at the clock on the dash – 10:42pm.

"Can you wait till we get home to eat?" Steve queried, a mix of sarcasm, amusement and warmth. "I don't think we should push Millie's patience any further. After all the worry you've put her through, I think the least you could do is let her feed you until she feels better."

Tim smiled, repentant. "I can wait." He shifted around in the back seat trying to get comfortable. He wanted to take off the seatbelt and lie down on his stomach but that didn't seem like a prudent thing to do in a Sheriff's car. There wasn't a position he could contort into that didn't put pressure on his bruised back and it was hurting more than his shoulder now that it was back in place and his arm snug in a sling. After a few more minutes of squirming he started feeling sorry for himself and added dejectedly, "I don't have any money to stop for food anyway." The tone was completely despondent, the misery suffocating. He finally managed to twist awkwardly, leaning against the seat on his right shoulder, his good one. He plunked his head on the seatback and sighed loudly.

Steve turned and looked past the headrest, eyed the sorrowful heap in the back. "Tim," he stated in a tone that suggested he wasn't opening a conversation, "you're moving back in with Millie and me. We were talking while you were in with the doctor. I know you'll be wanting privacy and Millie has an idea. Her brother has a trailer– she's going to ask him if he'll park it on our property, let us use it a while. You've only got a year and half left of high school anyway and then god knows what you'll be doing, but for now we'd all feel better about it." He paused and looked over at the Sheriff who nodded subtle encouragement. "We don't want you living with Frank and that's final. All that second-hand smoke – it's not good for a kid." Steve wasn't a man to sidestep the truth, preferring to speak plainly, and he felt uncomfortable offering up the lame excuse. He was surly as he finished his thoughts. "You tried it back home for a bit and it's obviously not working and I'm _not_ going to argue with you about it. I'm getting the trailer this weekend."

He glanced back at Tim again now that he'd said what he had to say, met his eyes and caught a look of doleful resignation. "Okay."

The peevish reply made Steve angry. "Dammit Tim, enough's enough. It's not a contest here – you and Frank. There's no winners, just losers in that kind of game."

Tim wouldn't look at him this time, pretended to be interested in the dark world of unclear shapes out the window, trying to see ahead to the future maybe or more clearly into the past, both equally obscured. He couldn't shake the feeling that Frank had taken this round, that Mr. Nickell had it wrong – there was a clear winner. Tim had been forced to concede this bout, run away with his tail between his legs. Frank had his house to himself again and Tim wasn't going to be driving for two years. Stealing the beer was like a mosquito taking a drop of blood from a bear. He was barely even a nuisance to his father and it stung him to realize it.

It wasn't fair – a hard life lesson to swallow and one he wouldn't get used to if he could help it.

"I know," he acknowledged finally to Mr. Nickell, a statement of defeat more than agreement. "He won't be home tonight. Do you think we could go by and get my bed – maybe just the mattress?"

Steve nodded, satisfied. "Sure thing. That's a good idea."

* * *

Millie fussed over Tim the entire weekend and by Sunday night he was settled into the trailer and secretly quite pleased about it. He'd be the only one in his school who had his own place, sort of. He couldn't wait to show Christine. Word traveled efficiently in the small town and by the time he got to school on Monday, still limping slightly and his arm still supported in a sling to give the shoulder some time to get over itself, everyone knew about his misadventures. Each retelling had embellished the tale until it came full circle and Tim sat at lunch listening to his friends explain how he'd nearly died tumbling one hundred feet, lying wounded for days without food or water.

He looked around the table at them, leaned in, wide-eyed and conspiratorial, to add some stupidity of his own. "I had to eat my arm to survive." Pointing to the sling, he added, "It's bionic. I'm still getting used to it."

Somebody said, "Really?" and they all laughed.

The attention that came with his celebrity status was annoying after the first hour but it had its perks, too. The girls were sympathetic. Even Christine hovered then had a fight with her jealous boyfriend and they broke up. She was miserable; Tim was cheerful.

By the following Friday he was feeling better, the sling abandoned, only a few scrapes still healing and the bruises now faded to yellow and green, the shade of grass left too long under a pail. The worst of it was hidden beneath his warm fall clothing, so the drama was quickly forgotten and school life slipped back into a routine. The bell rang at the end of the day and the class scrambled for the door and the weekend on the other side of it.

"Timothy, a word please."

Miss Hall nodded at him when he turned around, hearing his name. He stepped sideways out of the crush and headed back to her desk. Christine hesitated, opening her mouth to tell Tim she'd wait outside, but she was forestalled.

"Timothy's going to be a while, Christine. You might as well head on without him."

"Okay," she replied timidly, shrugged at Tim and left, closing the door behind her.

"You missed a History quiz last week. Why don't you sit down and write it now." She didn't pose it like a question, pointed to the desk in front of hers and passed him the test. He took it, glanced outside at the clear autumn sunshine beckoning then dropped his knapsack and sat down, recognizing the punishment due for skipping so many classes. He pulled out a pen and started.

Half an hour later he dropped the pen back in his bag, stood up and set the test on her desk. "Is that all?" he asked. "Can I go now?"

"We're not finished yet," she replied evenly. "Did you learn something through all of this?"

The question caught him by surprise and he looked sideways at the door then down at the floor, wondering how to answer.

"Do you really think chipping away at your future by skipping school is a good way to get back at your father? It strikes me that you're just scoring on your own team by helping him bring you down. Next time you get a _zero_ on the quiz. But I think you're smart enough to avoid a 'next time.'" She got up and motioned to a box on the floor. "I need some help getting these papers back to my house. Would you mind?"

Tim practically leapt over the desk to grab them.

"Careful," she scolded squashing a smile. "I don't want you breaking something."

They chatted as they walked. She asked him what type of books he liked reading and when he looked blankly at her she said sternly, "Surely you read _something_. I know you know how."

"Uh, mostly it's technical manuals – stuff about cars and guns." He gave her a one-sided shrug.

She pinched the bridge of nose, shut her eyes. "I'll lend you something. And you will read it."

"Okay." What else could he say?

Miss Hall rented an apartment over an insurance office. It was small and clean and filled with books. They were stacked on the few shelves she had, stacked on the floor in piles of varying heights, stacked on every surface that didn't have a dedicated purpose. There was even a stack in the bathroom. Tim looked around in awe, doing a quick calculation of the number and deciding it rivaled the school library's collection.

"Read much?" He let slip the sarcasm and she laughed good-naturedly.

"Pick something."

He started at the shelves, trailing his fingers over the spines, but had no idea what he was looking for. Eventually his eyes landed on a familiar title. He reached over and pulled it out, smoothed his hand over the cover, _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance_.

Unnoticed, Miss Hall had come up behind him and he jumped when she said, "You do realize that's not a technical manual."

They exchanged an amused look. "I know," Tim replied, embarrassed, grinning at his shoes.

"But at least it's written in full sentences with capitals and periods. Take it and when you're done, bring it back for another one."

Tim made the long walk home even longer, reading as he went. He was more than halfway through the book by the time he arrived for his shift at the garage Saturday morning, but he was not at all clear what it was about. Andy was there working under a hoist and Tim made a beeline over to him and started asking questions.

"Whoa, man, slow down," Andy said, dropping his arms and turning to give Tim the attention he was demanding. "Look, the whole idea is that you don't have to explain it, in fact you _can't _explain it. That's what Zen is – you either know or you don't. Just read it and get what you can out of it. Let yourself think about it _subconsciously_."

While Tim stood trying to make sense of that, Andy wiped his hands on a rag and walked over to the shelf at the back of the garage. He came back smiling and holding out a box of ammunition for Tim's rifle.

"Happy belated Birthday, man. Is your shoulder okay to shoot?"

Tim took the box, a grin taking over his face. "Oh my god, thanks. I'm right out. That's awesome." He rolled his shoulder, testing. "Maybe I could try tomorrow?" He looked at Andy, hoping for the okay.

Andy held up his hands defensively. "Don't look at me. I am not a doctor."

It was hard being sensible with a brand new box of ammunition lying heavily in your palm, temptation calling. "I guess I _should_ wait till next weekend," Tim finally said, stuffing the box in his jacket pocket and out of sight. "Do you want to come along?"

Andy smiled, "Maybe," and turned back to work on the car. "Ask me again next Saturday."

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	9. Chapter 9

**Bygones – Chapter Nine**

Tim slipped the book, face down, on Miss Hall's desk before class on Monday. She took off her reading glasses, perched them on her head and looked up at him, waiting.

A tilt of the head, arms crossed, Tim made a face and said "Don't ask me for a book report because I can't explain it, but apparently that's okay 'cause you're not supposed to be able to explain Zen. So I've been told."

"And who told you that?" she inquired, curious, running through the inhabitants of her small town in her head.

"Andy, the mechanic at the garage."

She blinked then she laughed, delighted at her surprise. "Well, isn't that just a perfect Zen moment. I'd have to give you top marks for that answer, though it would pain me."

Tim grinned along, not sure if her enjoyment of the conversation was above or beside his. Then her laughter settled into an easy smile and he determined she was with him in this moment.

"When would you like to come by for another book?"

Tim didn't want to appear too eager, glanced around to see who was listening. Satisfied to discover he was the only one yet in the classroom, he replied, "I dunno. I guess I'm free after school today."

The other students started trickling in and Tim stuffed his hands in his jeans' pockets, turned away and moved casually to his seat. Miss Hall slipped the book into her bag, still smiling.

Later that day, as everyone else was leaving for home, he told his friends he was doing time after school with Miss Hall, making up for missed work, a detention, kind of.

"Wow," one boy said, "you'd think you'd suffered enough. They gotta make you do detention, too? That _sucks_."

"It's not so bad," Tim replied, regretting his half-lie and working to build it into more than half a truth. "She makes it interesting. She's alright, really. I don't mind it."

Another said, "Definitely brain damage from the fall."

They all nodded.

"Fuck off," Tim responded good-naturedly and grinned. "Seriously, she's alright. I figure she's got a wicked sense of humor. You listen hard and you get that half the time she's having a laugh at us."

"It's true," added a girl from their class, standing with the group. "I saw her once telling off some kids for running in the hall and when she turned around she looked fit to burst trying to keep from laughing out loud."

That gave them something to chew on as they headed for home and Tim turned and walked back to meet the topic of their discussion. Miss Hall was waiting for him.

* * *

The following Saturday, after work, he walked to Miss Hall's apartment and rang the bell. He stood nervously, wondering if it was alright to intrude on a weekend, hoping it was so he wouldn't have to make excuses at school for his visits. She was obviously surprised to see him but invited him in, gracious and unflappable. He followed her upstairs and into her kitchen and she set another place for him at the table.

"Oh, it's okay," he said, embarrassed. "I'll get something to eat at the Nickell's. Um, I didn't mean to land in on you at dinner."

"You're not a fussy eater, are you?" she asked, ignoring his protests.

"I like…food," he answered.

"Well, gosh, you must be a teenage boy then, and that means you'll happily have two dinners and I'm not going to eat alone in front of you. So sit."

She dished out two plates and Tim dug in, hungry and appreciative. She watched him, amused.

"I really need to go by the lunch room more often, remind myself what teenagers are like at mealtime."

Tim grinned around a mouthful and offered playfully, "I'll save you a seat on Monday."

"I'll think about it," she replied flatly, enthusiasm waning. "So, Timothy, why are you at my house on a Saturday?"

Tim gave his fork a rest and bent down and pulled from his bag the book she'd lent him. He unceremoniously tossed it on the table between them, cover up. It was _The Count of Monte Cristo_.

"I finished it on my lunch break today," he explained,"so I thought I'd stop by on my way home and return it – get another one." He shrugged casually. But she saw through it, and he in turn read the understanding in her expression and blushed. He didn't want his friends to know he was borrowing books from her.

"Saturdays work fine since you're going past anyway." She allowed him his dignity, nodded at the book. "What did you think?"

"Great story."

"Did you get anything from it?"

"Sure," he replied. "People are mean, prison's a bitch, and revenge is a boomerang…with teeth." He had decided earlier that it was the last lesson that had prompted her to choose this particular book as his second. He tried to pretend that it didn't apply to him, but he couldn't help thinking of his father as he read it and that was evidence enough that it was pertinent.

She studied his face until he squirmed a bit, then she smiled and said, "Well, that's a concise summary. You should apply at Coles Notes for a position. You could save them a lot of money on printing costs."

Tim relaxed, grinned, starting to get a feel for her particular brand of humor.

"Do you want to pick this time," she invited, "or would you like me to choose again?"

He looked over his shoulder through the doorway to the collection of books in the living room, turned back and said dryly, "I think you'd better choose. I told the Nickells I'd be back for dinner."

"Okay then, I'll get you something. I don't want Millie angry with me for keeping you."

"I don't think you need to worry. She likes you," Tim assured her. "She says you were her daughter's favorite."

"She was an enthusiastic history student. Her math, though…"

Miss Hall stepped over to a pile of books and pulled one from the middle, obviously having it mind all along. Tim wondered if there was a system to the stacks but if there was it wasn't alphabetical or by size or even subject as far as he could tell. She set the book on the table and Tim leaned over for a better look. It was an autobiography.

"There's some good history there," she explained. "Booker T. Washington was a man who made something of himself despite his origins and circumstances. He built something good with nothing but sheer determination."

He might have resented the implications in her choices, except her tone wasn't ever pitying, it was challenging and he prided himself on never backing down from a challenge. He dropped the book in his pack and stood up. "Thanks for the meal, and the book. I'd better get going or I'll be late for dinner number two." He held up two fingers and grinned impishly.

She walked him to the top of the stairs, said as he started down, "You know, Tim," and he paused halfway, turned back, attentive, "I taught your mother."

He turned away again quickly, kept going. This conversation didn't interest him.

"She was very bright." Her tone was wistful.

Tim's shoulders slumped. He stopped again at the bottom and looked back, resentful now. "If she was so smart then why did she marry that asshole?"

"I said she was bright; I didn't say she was smart."

And there it was again, a challenge.

* * *

Tim tried the key a second time, but it fit badly in the lock and wouldn't turn. He ran around the back of the house and tried it in the kitchen door. He couldn't understand why it didn't work. The whole thing was weird and Tim got the cold feeling that something had changed. Frank never locked the house, and even if he'd decided to start – as if anything in the house deserved to be stolen – Tim had made sure to get a copy of the key and he'd tested it, knew it worked, except that now it didn't. He did a full circle, trying each window without luck, and ended up at the back door again and stood there lost. He needed to get in. Andy had agreed to join him this weekend for a trek in the woods and some target practice only now he didn't have a rifle and his friend was due any minute.

He briefly considered borrowing Mr. Nickell's rifle – they were away for the day – but he knew he wasn't allowed and he wouldn't betray that trust, not for anything. He walked over and picked up a fist-sized rock near the wood pile and eyed his bedroom window. It was an unusual situation, breaking into your own house. He hesitated. He had no idea how much trouble he'd get for smashing a window, and his father would know without a doubt who had done it. Tim made a mental note to corner the Sheriff with a hypothetical question or two, ask about what rights he had now that he was set up unofficially at the neighbors', what access he was allowed to what was really his house.

Before he could decide whether or not to throw the rock he heard the distinct sound of a Harley coming up the hill. Andy rode that bike all year, refusing to give it up unless it snowed. Tim walked across the yard to intercept and pointed him up the road to the Nickells', jogging over to join him as Andy pulled in.

"I got a problem," he shouted before his friend had shut down the engine. "My father's changed the locks or something." He waved an arm angrily back toward Frank's place. "I can't get in the house to get the rifle."

He was upset about it though he was trying hard to be cool. Andy grinned encouragement, slapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the rock Tim was still carrying. "A bit Neanderthal, that."

Tim snorted, dropped it, shrugged. "I was getting desperate."

"Your dad's trying to keep you out, huh?" Like everyone else in town, Andy had heard plenty about Tim and his father. He wagged his eyebrows mischievously. "You want to learn a handy trick?" He climbed off the bike and led the way back to Frank's house. "Come on."

Tim followed.

"Is there another door in the back?" Andy asked.

"Yeah."

"Good. More privacy for an impromptu breaking-and-entering lesson." He sauntered around to the kitchen door and dropped his pack on the step, pulled a small case from a side pocket and opened it. "Do you know how to pick a lock?" he asked.

Tim shook his head and leaned in to look at the tiny tools in the case.

"You're education is sadly lacking. Lock-picking is a useful skill." He grinned; Tim grinned, too, intrigued. "This is a pretty simple dead-bolt," Andy said, looking at the door. He chose two oddly-shaped, small metal picks from the case and held them up for Tim to see. "And these are all the tools you'll need to do the job. You can make them yourself." He stepped up to the door and had it open in under five seconds.

Tim gaped. "How did you do that?" Here was some magic that he wanted to learn badly.

"It's easy once you get the feel. This one puts pressure on the tumbler," he explained, holding up the fatter of the two picks, "and this one pushes the pins in place." He held up the second. "You apply a constant light pressure with this and it turns as you raise the pins in order." He shut the door again and handed the tools to Tim. "Here, you try."

Tim never did get it to work that afternoon without help and he didn't want to linger too long, the rifle was beckoning, but he got the mechanics down and was confident he could figure it out on his own with practice.

Andy put the home-made tools in Tim's hand, said, "You keep them. I'll make another set – it's easy enough. You can probably work on the door to your trailer."

Tim handled the gifts like they were precious, holding them carefully while he led Andy into his house. He strolled into Frank's bedroom, took an old envelope off the dresser, dumped out the contents and slipped the tools into it, putting it all safely in his pocket, then he opened the closet door. The shelf was empty.

"Oh, for fuck's sake! What an asshole," he swore expressively, resenting what was clearly Frank's retribution for something. "He never uses that rifle." Tim was bereft. He turned and huffed and started searching the room. "It can't be too far and he wouldn't throw it out. He probably thinks it's worth something."

Andy pitched in, checking cupboards and boxes. It took five minutes to find it, slid under the couch in the living room. "As you can see," Tim commented wryly, "the man's a genius."

An hour later, up in the woods, Tim was pleased to be showing Andy something for a change – how to hold a rifle and sight properly. Andy confessed he'd only ever fired a handgun. They shot through most of two boxes of rounds, the one Andy had given him and another that Tim had bought with the unspent birthday money for his driver's license. It was a good afternoon for shooting, cool and clear and virtually no wind, and Tim took full advantage of it and shot almost perfectly. Andy was duly impressed and said so.

He stuck around afterward, long enough to watch Tim clean the rifle and put it back under the couch, then he gave Tim some homework – master the tools – and grinning, left. Tim stretched out happily in his trailer reading about Booker T. Washington until dinner.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	10. Chapter 10

**Bygones – Chapter Ten**

Tim walked out of the licensing office clutching his temporary learner's permit, his face lit up brighter than the Christmas decorations on the town hall. Miss Hall thought about the Grinch and how it must have felt for him to have his heart grow three sizes and she laughed out loud for sheer pleasure at Tim's reaction.

"I don't know how to say thank you properly." It was a question. Tim looked at her hopelessly, arms out, grinning stupidly.

"Oh, well, let me explain something before you thank me, young man," she stated and pointed at the paper in his hand. "This is a contract between you and me and if you don't like the terms you can turn around right now and take it back into the clerk. And furthermore, this contract comes with a serious rider."

Tim couldn't think of anything she could possibly say that would make him want to relinquish his grip on this document, but he figured it would be prudent to have her explain his indenture. "Okay," he prompted, a little nervously.

"You _must_ finish high school. No excuses."

Tim ran his free hand through his hair, relieved. He always intended to graduate. That wasn't a hard promise to keep. "What's the rider?" he asked.

"I'm on the hook now, Timothy, for your driving, even if my name isn't on that paper. If this gets back to your father then I'm in trouble, so you had better take your driving seriously. I'm putting a lot of faith in you. I wouldn't if I didn't trust you, but it's important that you understand that you are taking on the responsibility of protecting my good name."

"I won't do anything stupid," he promised.

"Good. Too many kids die driving in this state."

He walked with her back to her apartment, glancing periodically, possessively at his permit. While she unlocked her door he leaned against the building contentedly, wondering if it would be possible to get Mr. Nickell to take him out driving when he got home. But then the low hum of the question he'd ignored while reveling in his good fortune started to grow louder, distracting, and he screwed his face into a knot and asked, "How did you get him to sign off on this?"

"The clerk or Frank?"

Tim paused before answering – he hadn't considered the clerk's conspiracy in this. "Both?"

She leaned in to whisper, "I have some good dirt on the clerk."

Tim stared blankly while his mind raced through his experiences with her, running algorithms to determine if she were joking. The results were inclusive. She was an enigma, still.

Her eyes danced, wicked and mischievous. "As for your father, I told him it was a parental permission form allowing us to stop you from any extra-curricular activities as punishment for skipping so many classes. I had him sign duplicates. He didn't look too closely at either of them."

"What was the other one?"

"You would have to be especially bad to find out."

It took mountains of discipline for Miss Hall to hold her expression unreadable while Tim's features ran an obstacle course of emotions, scaling concern, swimming through curiosity, hurdling disbelief at the finish. When he was done, his face settled into wary and he looked down at his permit with a little less enthusiasm. "I've probably just signed my soul over to the devil, right?"

"Now I've been called a witch before and often, but never a devil." She smiled. "Merry Christmas, Timothy. You've earned it." She opened the door, reached in, pulled a book off the stairs and handed it to him. "Holiday reading assignment."

He took the book, glanced at the cover, _Cider House Rules_, but it barely registered in his whirring thoughts. "Do you work for the mob?" he asked, almost serious.

* * *

Tim had spent every Christmas with the Nickells after his mother died. The holidays at their place on the hill in Wolfe County were his favorite – he felt like he belonged there. But the times they packed him up with them and went away to visit their grown-up children always felt like a hand-me-down holiday to Tim, only borrowed enjoyment. The families were kind and welcoming and maybe that was the difference, that he was treated like a guest rather than one of their own, bickering and casual.

This year the Nickells were invited to their daughter's house in Lexington. Tim would've been happy staying alone in his trailer now that he was old enough but Mrs. Nickell would've been miserable leaving him behind. At least that's how Mr. Nickell explained it, though he was thinking more along the lines of preventing Tim from having a girl over without supervision. He sweetened the deal by suggesting Tim might like to drive part of the way. In the end, Tim agreed to join them willingly enough. He always liked Katie, their daughter and their youngest. She would look after him on occasion when he was little – she made it fun – and she hadn't changed much as an adult. She had a lot of her dad in her.

Her husband though, Richard, he was a dick in Tim's view in more than name. A college graduate, he had a job at a bank and acted like he was better than everyone else because of it. He always found an opportunity to talk down to Mr. Nickell, and when that happened Tim couldn't control his tongue. Faster than the banker could counter, Tim would whip out sarcasm in Steve's defense, accurate and scathing. Millie would intercede, sending Tim out of the room on make-believe errands and insisting that Steve go too, ostensibly to help but everyone knew it was to have a word with his champion. The two would drag the errand out a little and laugh together in private, then Steve would say, "He's good to Katie," and that would be that.

Tim tried this year to act more mature now that he was driving. He kept a leash on his tongue, allowing it only as far as his cheek, and expressed himself exclusively for Mr. Nickell with a well-timed roll of the eyes. Steve allowed him to have a beer or two on Christmas Day as a reward for his restraint and let Tim drive most of the way back home on Boxing Day.

Mr. Nickell had some time off and spent quite a bit of it with Tim. He took him shooting and they hiked the hills. One time they ended up over the ridge at the cut. Mr. Nickell had requested to see it, the infamous rock face that beat Tim Gutterson, he teased. When they arrived Steve stopped at the top of the incline and stared unfocused, thinking.

"So this is where you fell, huh?" he finally asked, loosening his feet and walking down to meet Tim at the bottom.

Tim made a disgusted face and pointed at the shrub at the base. "This bush sacrificed itself to save me," he joked, ducking his head when Steve laughed, too, a bit forced.

"And what did you learn in all this, you idiot?"

"Don't climb drunk."

Steve stood at the bottom and looked up the cliff, looked back at Tim, measuring the boy, then said, "I was hoping to hear, 'don't climb without proper safety equipment.'" He sighed, feeling the weight of age and the burden of experience and certain knowledge that came with it. "Is it too cold to try it again today?" The sun was low but had been gently warming the face since noon and he could feel the heat radiating off the rocks. He reached out a hand; they were warm to touch, just.

Tim was confused at the question, watched Steve a moment then answered, "It's probably warm enough."

"Better get back on that horse then." Mr. Nickell gestured up to the top and moved back.

Tim couldn't believe he was getting permission to do what he'd fully intended to sneak out and do anyway – try that route again. He took off his jacket and Steve held out a hand for it. Then Tim rubbed his hands together warming his fingers and had a clear-headed look at the rocks above him. It was an easier climb sober though still challenging and he arrived at the top satisfied. His shoulder didn't bother him much, either.

Steve grinned in appreciation, a part of him wishing he could try it. He gave Tim the thumbs up and headed up the slope and around to meet him, threw his jacket at him. They sat at the top and shared a thermos of coffee and had a serious discussion about girls.

"Mr. Nickell," Tim said when the topic had been covered from every angle, "I have no intention of being a daddy at sixteen."

Steve huffed. "Nobody ever does, Tim." He collected up the mugs and the thermos and stood up. "You know, I'd happily be your father but since that's not going to happen I guess I'll settle for being your friend. It's probably a better thing, less baggage." He turned away and looked at his feet. "Come on, we'd best get back. There's not much light left."

As they reached the top of the cut, Mr. Nickell stopped and looked back, letting his eyes wander over the area. "Why don't you call me Steve? Makes more sense. And Tim," he said then paused, chewing on his bottom lip, "don't come back here climbing, okay? This is where your mother died." He pointed. "Right there. That's where they found her."

* * *

The garage was open the week between Christmas and New Year's and Tim gladly picked up a couple of extra shifts and some extra money helping the owner do inventory and pitching in for the annual cleaning of the shop area. Often it was he and Andy working alone together and when they were finished the day's list of chores Andy would teach him more about car engines or let him ride his motorcycle around the lot.

One particular day, Andy showed Tim a new trick – how to hotwire a car. The shop owner had acquired a used pickup, the frame damaged in an accident, had it towed in and asked Andy to strip the engine for parts, suggesting it would be a good opportunity for Tim to learn more. Andy saw an opportunity for more than just an education in mechanics and before they started on the engine he opened the steering column and initiated his protégé in the not-too-subtle art of car theft.

"Now, you do understand that I'm showing you this in case you ever lose your keys, right?" Andy stated, with a wink.

Grinning widely, Tim replied, "Uh-huh, sure thing."

"And remember, this doesn't work on most new cars with computer chips in the ignition switch – kills the engine and the fun."

"Okay," Tim nodded, grinning still.

"And don't electrocute yourself on the starter wires. They're connected to the car battery. I never leave home without a roll of electrician's tape," Andy explained, pulling one from his jacket pocket. "And always use a tool with an insulated handle."

"Right, okay," Tim said, grin fading slightly. "You done this before?"

"A few times."

Andy walked him through the process, contingencies, irregularities between manufacturers, then let Tim do it. It wasn't difficult and the truck started the first time.

"Have you considered a life of crime?" Andy joked, cuffed Tim on the shoulder. "You're a natural."

"I'm still working on getting the hang of picking locks," Tim confessed.

"That's a finesse thing. You'll get it. Keep trying."

"Can you hotwire a motorcycle?" Tim asked, imagining the possibilities.

Andy pulled the wires apart, shutting the engine off and stepped out of the cab, flicked a look at his accomplice, a half-smile creeping onto his face. "Yeah, sure. It's not hard at all," he answered concentrating on his hands as he spoke. "Come on, I'll show you and then we'd better get started on the engine."

They stayed after hours, working away happily until the job was done and the truck was ready for the junkyard. Andy gave Tim a lift home and promised to help him get his motorcycle license after he passed his driving exam. Tim passed his excitement on to Millie and Steve at dinner. They didn't seem as enthusiastic.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	11. Chapter 11

**Bygones – Chapter Eleven**

By the end of the Christmas holidays, Tim was getting good at picking simple locks. It was an exciting secret to have but he felt it would be a much better secret if it weren't such a secret. Christine came over after New Year's to hang out and he decided she'd be a good person to confide in – and brag to. They had coffee with Millie then took a long hike in the woods. Coming back they were thirsty and Tim suggested they have a beer.

"Sure," Christine sneered, too cool. "Where are we going to get one?"

"I'm sure there's some at the house."

"Millie would let us?"

"Not that house, you idiot. My house."

Christine stopped short, said curtly, "I'm not allowed, remember?"

"Frank's not home. Come on."

Tim didn't wait for a response, strode the path to the yard and up the back steps, confident and cocky. He waited until she was standing behind him before he picked the lock, looking casual but in truth he'd been nervously planning this moment all afternoon. And the look on her face was everything he'd hoped for.

"What?" he shrugged and opened the door.

Christine huffed in disbelief but followed him in. They grabbed four beers out of the fridge, hiding them under their jackets, and headed back to the trailer. Christine was giggling and they flopped on the bed and opened them and drank one each quickly, wanting to get it down before they got caught. Then they opened the second round and took their time, a little swaggering to celebrate their successful adventure.

Two beers and Tim was feeling confident. He leaned over and kissed Christine. She pushed him away and sat up abruptly.

"Tim," she said simply and slumped her shoulders looking sad.

He watched her a minute, trying to figure out where this left him. "What?" he said, uncertain again, suddenly finding his beer can fascinating.

"I thought you were my friend," she explained.

"Well, sure I am. Does that mean I can't…"

"Yes, that means you _can't_," she interrupted before he could finish then hammered the last nail in the coffin, "And besides, I'm back with…you know." She looked embarrassed, slid off the bed and sat in the chair at the desk.

"Shit, Christine, you're not dating that asshole again?"

"Don't be a jerk!" She stood up abruptly and walked out, slamming the door to the trailer.

Tim sat brooding, reached over for the can of beer she left on the table, only half finished. He had the last mouthful of his then drank the remainder of Christine's and settled onto the bed staring at the ceiling. After a while he became bored with the angst, grabbed the book Miss Hall had given him for holiday reading and opened it. He only had a few chapters left and he wanted to finish it before school started again Monday.

* * *

School, work, driving lessons, extra reading for Miss Hall, chores, friends and Tim found he could keep his mind off of Christine. She stopped sitting with them at lunch again and he didn't see her except in passing on the weekends. Spring wasn't even officially on the calendar and the teachers were already talking about exams, all of them except Miss Hall who discussed career choices and life after high school.

"Four years of high school, ladies and gentlemen," she would say, "then fifty years of your adult life to live. What could you see yourself doing for that long?"

"Rock star!" someone yelled.

"I expect complimentary tickets for your first big tour, Adam, or I'm spilling to the press about you mooning after the supply teacher."

Adam bloomed red and the class laughed.

Tim was alternating plowing through the latest offering from Miss Hall, a worn copy of _For Whom the Bell Tolls_, and watching amused through the window of his trailer as Frank tried to start his car for the third time that week. And for the third time that week it wouldn't start.

"Like it's going to magically fix itself," Tim muttered.

Later, one of Frank's bar buddies drove up, picked Frank up. It was clear though, by the end of the third week without a car, that Frank's friends weren't that choked up if he didn't show for pool and beer and smokes. Frank left home less and less.

Millie mentioned it at dinner one night. "I'm worried about Frank. What's he doing for food?" Her comments were met with stony silence from her husband and Tim. She plowed on. "He's getting sicker and sicker. I ran into Carol from the clinic and she says he's not going to last long if he doesn't quit smoking and start taking better care of himself. The doctor figures he'll probably die of lung cancer but he refuses to get a scan."

"Can I throw a party when he dies?"

"Tim," Steve spoke sternly, wearily, "I don't think that's an appropriate attitude."

"Yes, sir." Tim ducked his head and concentrated on his food.

"I'm thinking of taking him some meals," Millie said, looking at Steve for approval.

Steve sighed, thinking.

"Why don't I see if I can fix the car," Tim suggested. "It probably just needs a new battery. He can get his own food then."

Steve nodded his approval. "That would be a good thing to do. In the meantime, I'll take him some meals if that's what you want, Millie."

Millie smiled at them both. Tim felt a twinge of guilt. He'd already decided to have a look at the car but for selfish reasons. He was getting tired of Frank always being around. He missed shooting but didn't dare break into the house for the rifle with his father there sitting on the couch. Spring was just around the corner and the hills were beckoning.

"I'll quit work early one day this week," Steve offered, "meet you at the garage after school and help you get the things you need."

"Okay. I can look at it tomorrow when I get home."

"When can you take your road test?" Steve asked this question once a week, as anxious as Tim for a second driver in the house.

"June," Tim answered patiently.

"After you get your full license, you can drop me at work and use the truck when you need it. You'll just have to promise to pick me up afterward. I'm not young like you. Walking that hill would do me in."

Tim grinned; Steve smiled with him. He kept himself in pretty good shape and they both knew the hill wouldn't be much of a challenge.

Knocking on the door to his house after school the following day, Tim tried to dredge up some feelings for his father, some memory to make this seem less like pity and more like a responsibility, something he felt he should do, but nothing came to mind. He scuffed his shoes on the porch waiting, resentful, listening to the sounds of Frank puffing his way to the door. Thoughts of getting his hands back on his rifle kept him cool, determined not to be the one to start the arguing.

The door opened.

"Well, look here what we've got – the prodigal son. What the fuck do you want?" Frank spat every word.

There was little resemblance left between the man at the door and the father Tim remembered when he was little. There was no vigor, no threat, nothing to fear. He looked smaller. Tim cocked his head, licked his lips, tried, but the only thing that remained was the resentment, and plenty of it.

He held out a hand. "Give me your keys and I'll take a look at the car for you." He hadn't meant for it to sound so arrogant, so disdainful, but it just came out that way, a habit from days of trying hard not to appear afraid.

"Go to hell. I don't need your help."

Tim wiped a hand across his mouth, looked out at the woods and thought about hunting season. He had a reputation to uphold and he couldn't do it without practice and he couldn't practice without a rifle. "Look, it's no big deal, okay. I've learned a few things at the garage. Maybe it just needs a boost." He shrugged, kept his hand out, worked to keep eye contact, instill the tiniest trust.

Frank hesitated. "I ain't paying you," he said.

"That's fine. I don't care."

"You fix it because you owe me for feeding you those years. You don't get no rights to the car."

Tim couldn't do it. "Fuck you," he said, turned and slumped down the porch stairs. The keys followed him, landing on the ground beside him as he walked the yard toward the road.

"Go on, then. Fix it if you can. You owe me."

Tim picked up the keys and changed direction, heading to the car. This he could do. He tried turning over the engine but it didn't even hiccup. He yelled back to the house. "I'll try boosting it when Mr. Nickell gets back with his truck."

"Give me back the keys."

"Nope. I'm not begging for them twice in one day." Tim pocketed the car keys and headed back to the Nickells' to have a cup of coffee with Millie, ignoring the threats and insults being hurled at him. He didn't bother to turn around to check – he knew his father wouldn't follow him up the hill.

* * *

Tim drove the truck over before dinner and parked it facing the old car, popped the hoods on both and pulled out Steve's booster cables.

Frank came out onto the porch and yelled over, "I already tried boosting it. You must think I'm pretty stupid."

Tim looked at him, didn't bother responding. He peered under the hood of the car at the filthy engine, wondering when the air filter was last changed, checked the oil level and unsurprisingly, it was low. "How old's your battery, asshole," he muttered, walking back to the truck and pulling out a tool kit. He brought out a wire brush and went to work on the contacts, scraping at the rust and corroded metal until he was satisfied that it was the cleanest he could get them, started Steve's truck, hooked up the cables then started Frank's car. It took a little coaxing, but the engine turned over and Tim revved it, watching in the rearview mirror as blue smoke streamed out of the tailpipe.

He glanced over to the porch to see Frank's reaction, but he'd gone back inside. Tim yawned, left the car running and strolled around and unhooked the cables, coiled them up and set them back in Steve's truck with the tool kit. He figured he'd have to take Frank's car down to the garage, ask the owner if he could change the oil and scavenge a newer battery from somewhere, pretty sure this one was dead. He'd ask Steve to follow him down in the truck, leave the car overnight, then he could work on it after school tomorrow. Walking back between the vehicles he shut the hood on the car. The old beater started rolling backward and he thought for a minute the gears had slipped.

He stared in disbelief as Frank drove off.

Steve had wandered over to see how things were going, ran a hand through his hair and asked, the confusion evident in his tone, "Where's he going?"

Tim was still watching tail lights disappear down the hill. "Pool hall. Maybe for smokes. Is dinner ready?"

"Uh-huh."

Tim nodded, pointed at the truck. "Hop in. I'll give you a lift home." He grinned at his own joke.

Steve didn't laugh. "Did he even say thank-you?"

"No."

"You're calm about it."

Tim shrugged. "He'd better leave it running or he won't be able to start it again, and now that I think about it, it was pretty low on gas."

Steve guffawed. "It's a long walk up that hill."

"Uh-huh."

"You hungry?"

"Starving."

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	12. Chapter 12

**Bygones – Chapter Twelve**

Tim fell back into the trailer, winded. He didn't see it coming. Frank was still a strong man, sheer mass lending momentum to the punch, pulling Tim up like a piece of paper off the floor and back-handing him hard. Tim scrambled to get out of the way but Frank had him cornered. He did his best to block the next punch, felt the blood running freely down his face from his nose. The next one after that didn't have the same power as the first and Tim hoped Frank was working up to another coughing fit, but it was Steve's rage, not Frank's chain-smoking, that offered reprieve.

"That's enough!" Steve hauled Frank out of trailer, backward down the steps and onto his ass on the ground. "Get off my property!"

"That little fucker messed with my car," Frank growled, hand on the trailer and staggering to his feet. "This is between me and him. It's none of your business."

"This is every bit my business because I'm making it my business. Get off my property, and if I catch you within a hundred yards of that boy again I'm gonna shoot you and then I'll call the Sheriff."

Tim stumbled to the door to help but Steve didn't need it. Tim had never seen Steve angry, not ever, and it scared him. He wiped at the blood dripping into his mouth, eyed the two men nervously and stayed out of the way. Frank started hacking then and turned his back cursing, stomped around the end of the trailer and back home. Steve glared after him, rifle in a tight grip in one hand, other hand balled into a violent fist. He swore loudly.

"Fucking bastard!"

Tim watched uneasily, wary, as Steve slowed his breathing, the hard lines in his features slackening, melting back into the man Tim knew well. Steve turned to him, took in the bloody nose, the cut lip, the swelling eye, lifted his rifle and said quietly, "It's a good thing I didn't have time to load it." He ran his now-open hand across his face then held it out to Tim, beckoning. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

Tim hesitated and Steve saw it; creased sorrow replaced the anger. He leaned the rifle against the trailer, sat on the bottom step and dropped his head in hands. Eventually he sat back up, rubbed his palms on his pant legs. "You know, my father was a mean drunk," he said. "I swore I'd never be like him, never raise a hand to my kids and I never did – never will." He patted the step beside him. "Maybe we should've got you away from Frank. Millie and the Sheriff talked about it, putting you in foster care, but Millie didn't want to let you go. Maybe it was selfish, but she thought you'd be better off staying here."

"If I'd gone into foster care, would I've been allowed to go hunting with you?" Tim asked, his guard slipping finally, seating himself beside Steve.

"No."

"Then I'm glad I stayed."

"Yeah, me too."

Blood dripped off Tim's chin. He lifted the end of his shirt up and wiped at it. Steve reached a hand up and tousled his hair. "You need a haircut," he said, a sorrowful smile.

"Maybe I should wait till my nose stops bleeding first."

"Shit, Tim, you didn't deserve this. I shouldn't have agreed to let you try and fix that car."

Tim shrugged, philosophical. "Seemed a good idea at the time. And watch your swearing around Mrs. Nickell."

That produced an honest grin from Steve. He stood up, shedding the tail ends of the anger. "Have you ever heard Millie swear?"

Tim shook his head, couldn't even imagine it.

"You might today," Steve commented ominously.

* * *

"This is ironic," Tim pointed out to Andy as he helped him change the oil on Frank's old beater. There was only one garage in Campton and that's where the car ended up.

It didn't take long for the entire town to learn what had happened, it was written on Tim's face in black and blue for anyone to read. Tim was embarrassed every time someone asked about it, commented, grimaced in sympathy. He felt he shouldn't have let Frank catch him off guard. His pride took a worse beating than his face.

Even Andy, the loner, couldn't fail to notice the hieroglyphics and interpret their meaning. "It would be a simple matter to put a slow leak in the radiator, mix something not engine-friendly in with the oil, tamper a bit with the brake line if you're really feeling vindictive," Andy offered.

"Tempting, but I like my life better when he's not house-bound. Besides, with my luck, his brakes would fail coming down the hill and he'd end up running me over on my way home from school. Let's just fix it proper and get the man his pathetic life back. I'll be happier for it."

"If that's what you want."

When Frank came to pick up his car, Tim stayed out of sight in the back lot, sitting on a stack of tires and basking in the warmth of some late afternoon spring sunlight. Andy, curious to see the man on the other side of the punches, left Tim stewing and walked into the office where the owner and Frank were concluding their business.

"That'll cost you $75, Frank. Oil change, new battery, had to clean up some contact points – bit of labor involved there."

"I only got $55," he grumbled, fishing in his pockets. That's it for the month."

"I'll take $55 then, but just this time." The garage owner and Andy exchanged a conspiratorial look. They'd fished a used battery out of a wreck and the labor and parts amounted to $40, tops. But the owner kept a straight face when he took Frank's money, put $40 in the cash register then walked out back and handed Tim the extra $15. He shrugged. "Can't get blood from a stone, but it's better than nothing."

Tim snorted, embarrassed again and trying to hide it, but smiled for the first time in three days.

As soon as his boss went back inside, Tim held the $15 out to Andy. "Can you…?"

"Yeah, yeah, another box of ammo." He flicked him with the dirty rag he was using to wipe his hands. "You are obsessed."

"Thanks, I'll make up the difference when I get paid this week."

"Don't worry about it."

* * *

The party went all night, a proper hello to summer on the last Friday in June after exams. Tim raided his father's supply of beer to join in the festivities, even though Millie and Steve were adamant after the incident at the trailer, insistent that Tim agree to stay away from Frank's place. He truly meant it when he swore he wouldn't go there anymore, but it was one promise he just couldn't keep. He wasn't going to steal beer from Steve and he wasn't going to the party empty-handed.

He tried not to feel guilty about breaking his word to them. His conscience was keeping a ledger and he felt he made up for it in other ways. He passed his driving test the first try, was responsible when he took the car out, his marks in his classes were good and he felt confident about his final exams, and he worked hard at the garage. And he stayed clear of Frank. But he couldn't stop himself from sneaking into the house when his father was out, slipping in to chip away at the alcoholic contents of the fridge, pulling the rifle out from under the couch and going up into the hills to shoot. That was his, that secret, and the rifle and the beer, too. They were his and he didn't share them with anyone, not even Christine anymore.

It was a great summer. Steve would let Tim use the truck if it was available as long as he didn't return it empty. One night, he and some friends all pitched in for gas and drove to Stanton to the drive-in. The movie sucked but the freedom was priceless. They didn't feel like kids anymore. And Christine came back mid-summer. She'd broken up with her boyfriend again and she and Tim started hanging out like nothing ever happened.

Toward the end of August, Tim took the day and his rifle and headed out alone. He hiked farther than he'd ever gone, over the ridge and into the next set of hills. It was late in the day when he came back and he didn't expect Frank to be at home. He wasn't looking for him, trudged carelessly down the path in the woods behind the house. The smell of tobacco alerted him. He stopped dead in his tracks and peered through the trees down the hill, saw the car, ducked behind a fallen log when he spotted Frank sitting on the back step smoking.

It made him angry that his reaction was to hide like he did when he was little. He wanted to keep walking straight into the yard with the rifle, saunter past knowing Frank couldn't touch him, fearless. He loaded a round and thought about doing it, tried to imagine how Frank would react seeing him. He pictured himself standing his ground, shouldering his rifle and aiming, deadly serious, looking down the sights into Frank's eyes and daring him to take another step. But his imagination failed him past that point in his daydreaming. He didn't know, pushed to it, if he could pull the trigger. He didn't know. He couldn't know, not until it happened.

He pulled the rifle around and pointed it down the slope, resting the barrel on the log, lining up the sights on Frank, lining up the shot, testing his will.

There was nothing but his steady breathing and an opportunity, an opportunity and a crossroads. He was certain he wouldn't go to jail for it, enough precedent to blame his father for everything – self-defense. Tim stayed crouched behind the log, rifle set, finger on the trigger, watching, wondering if Frank could sense how close it was. Then Frank casually stubbed out his cigarette, stood up and stepped inside.

Tim set the rifle across his lap and continued to stare at the back door.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	13. Chapter 13

**Bygones – Chapter Thirteen**

"What do you mean, you're leaving," Tim stated, mouth open, staring dumbfounded at Andy.

"I think I've stayed too long." Andy smiled. "Besides, I haven't got much left to teach you, little grasshopper."

"Well, that's bullshit," Tim responded, hurt. "I don't know half of what you know about engines. You can't leave now. You were going to help me get my motorcycle license."

"Sorry, but I've got to go. It's been a good couple of years, but I've stayed too long." Andy said it again, "I've stayed too long this time," his tone, his body language, all firm – he wasn't going to be argued out of it. He shrugged. "You could come with me."

Tim looked at him, confused. "Where are you going?"

"I'm not sure yet. Maybe Maine. Maybe Washington State since spring's here and the weather will be good for cruising through the Dakotas. Maybe I'll head up into Canada and learn some French. Want to meet some French girls? Come with me," he repeated the offer, smiling enticement.

"I can't just leave."

"Why not? What's holding you here?"

Tim hung his head, thinking hard. He'd overheard Millie and Steve talking about retirement, about moving south of Lexington to be closer to their daughter. He never really expected to stay past high school, but he'd never really considered much beyond that.

"School," he said finally. "I've only got a couple months left till I graduate. I can't leave now."

"Who needs school when you've got skills?"

The temptation was grating. Tim licked his lips, slumped a little. "I made a promise."

He nodded, dismissive. "You've got to do what you've got to do."

"When are you going?" Tim asked.

"Today's my last day. I'm heading out Monday morning."

"Shit." And that was all Tim could think to say.

"If you change your mind, meet me here Monday morning by 7am. Pack light."

* * *

"Timothy," she replied, "I _could_ live your life for you, if that's what you want. You'd end up teaching high school to a bunch of impossible teenagers in a small town in Eastern Kentucky." She looked at him over her glasses. "Probably wouldn't suit you, though, would it?"

Tim had stopped by Miss Hall's apartment after work, after his conversation with Andy. He hadn't been by as much this past six months, too much school work and he was at the garage two extra shifts a week. He was there to return her book – it could have waited another week but he was happy for the excuse. He needed an ear and some advice and she was always good for both. When he didn't supply much beyond the bare facts, Miss Hall resigned herself to being more adviser than ear, a position she didn't relish under the circumstances. She was unusually cagey.

"It must be pretty tempting to go with him. A kindred spirit, right?" She pushed him to talk.

"I guess."

She waited for more. Tim leaned against the doorway into her kitchen, eyed the linoleum carefully. If he had looked up at her, he would have seen a wry face and an amused rolling of the eyes.

"Where would you go?" He missed the facetious head wagging that went with the question.

"Dunno."

She looked heavenward then wasted a piercing look on him. "Andy seems a nice fellow," she offered. "Why's he wandering around the country, did he say?"

"No."

Tim was still holding the book he'd brought back. She gave up trying to draw him out, walked over and took the book from him, continued into her living room and slipped it back on the shelf where it belonged in her unfathomable system. She stood with her lips pursed considering what to offer him next. She settled for some wisdom.

"You promised me you'd finish high school. Now, I'm too old to put much faith in promises. It's a ridiculous concept. People make them so blindly, not having a clue what's coming around the bend to knock them off their path. You can have the best intentions and all the will in the world, but if you get hit by a bus tomorrow then you won't be graduating. Clearly, Andy is a bus." She smiled. "It's really not a very good metaphor, but you know what I mean. And it's up to you to decide if you're going to step out onto the road in front of it or not. Your decisions are what will define you and they're not mine to make."

She turned suddenly and walked over to another pile, pulling a book out from the bottom and toppling the lot. Tim hurried over, bent down and stacked them again.

"Here." She handed him _Slapstick _by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., tapped the cover. "I should probably give you _Great Expectations_ or another more classic tale of actions and consequences and destiny but we may only have until Monday morning. This is short and certainly a fun kick of inspiration. This man can be so profoundly ridiculous." She stopped and looked over at her audience, remembering what started the discussion and deciding to leave her diatribe on Vonnegut for another day. She finished up, returning to the matter weighing down on Tim's shoulders. "It's not going to answer your question for you – stay or go. You'll have to think that one through yourself. But at least you can have the book finished by Monday. I'll bring something else to class so you can trade it in, or pack it and take it with you if that's what you decide."

He nodded dully.

"Go on home then. Millie's cooking is better than mine."

He picked up his knapsack and headed out the door.

"Tim," she called down.

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned back.

"I know that last encounter with your father knocked the stuffing out of you. I hope you realize that you don't have to leave Wolfe County to be free of him, but I would understand why if you did."

He nodded again, closed the door behind him and headed out of town and up the hill. He was used to hearing challenges from Miss Hall, a good tactic on her part, certainly motivational for chest-beating teen boys. This last, though, sat more like pity. The farther he got from town, the more revolutions her comment made around his head, the more he hated it. His anger stacked up with every step. By the time he arrived at the Nickells', he'd made up his mind to go. To hell with her.

He was determined to finish the book before he left, slip it in her mail slot and thumb his nose at her smugness. He got himself comfortable and read until 3am, finally falling asleep with his light still on.

Steve smacked the side of the trailer early the next morning. "Hey Tim," he called out, an invitation. "I'm heading to Lexington. You want to drive?"

He grinned listening to the stumbling inside then Tim popped his head out. "Uh, sure, okay. Let me grab some clothes."

Tim emerged shortly – one look at him and Steve decided to change the plans a little. "Why don't I drive the first leg – you can finish your night's sleep on the way there. Then you can drive back. Just how late did you stay up?"

Tim grinned sheepishly, "I'm fine, really."

But Steve insisted and Tim was nodding off less than fifteen minutes up the parkway.

Steve nudged him when they pulled off the highway and they stopped first at the IHOP for a second breakfast. Steve enjoyed Tim's company on his quarterly runs to Lexington; Tim liked the change of scenery. They called it their 'guy time.'

Tim grinned spontaneously and chuckled to himself while he poured more syrup on his pancakes. Steve looked over, curious.

"What's so funny?"

"It's this book I'm reading. I wish I could do a book report on it."

Steve eyed him, concerned for his sanity. "Really?"

"It's so funny. There's this guy that runs for president after a plague that wipes out most of the population of North America. In his campaign speeches he keeps saying, 'Take a flying fuck at a rolling donut; take a flying fuck at the mooooon.'" Tim strung out the last word, just like it was written in the book, started chuckling again. "Can you imagine putting that in a paper and handing it in to your English teacher? God, that'd be so cool."

Steve thought about it, chuckled too. Then they both started laughing. When they were done giggling Steve asked, "Where did you find the book?"

Tim quirked a smile. "Miss Hall loaned it to me."

That got them laughing again.

* * *

Tim packed his bag that night, asked Steve if he could get a ride into town early the next morning – Monday. Steve dropped him at the school just before 7am, didn't think to ask why he needed to be there at that hour.

After he pulled away, Tim jogged down the street and into town then over to the garage. He could see Andy in the parking lot and waved.

"You made it," Andy said casually when Tim trotted up. "You ready for some freedom and some fun?"

Tim bit his lip. "Actually, I'm not coming." He dropped his knapsack down and pulled out the book Miss Hall had loaned him, handed it over. "I think you'll like this, if you haven't read it."

Andy didn't look surprised or disappointed or relieved. He took the book, packed it, thanked Tim and left. Tim stood watching until Andy turned a corner and disappeared from sight.

Slinging his bag over his shoulder Tim strolled back to the school and sat in the yard on the bleachers until his friends showed up. There was a lot of talk about what they were going to do after they graduated that year. Tim thought maybe he'd work a while, save up to buy a motorcycle, get his license and travel. Or maybe not.

Miss Hall had left a book on his desk. She smiled when he came in.

Tim walked straight over to where she was seated at her desk. "He didn't knock the stuffing out of me," he said, defiant and still angry with her.

"Excellent," she replied. "I'm pleased to hear it. How was _Slapstick_? Did you enjoy it?"

Tim was prepared to carry his anger forward for a good while yet, but when he started his reply, "Take a flying fuck at a rolling donut; take a flying fuck at the mooooon," and she joined in for the last bit, he found that he was laughing with her. She'd thrown down the gauntlet – again.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	14. Chapter 14

**Bygones – Chapter Fourteen**

Looking back on it all later, it was clear to Tim the domino placement that knocked each event into the next and ended up with him jumping out of a plane at Airborne School some weeks after his father's funeral. Heights were never a problem for him and he kept his eyes open and watched the ground as it rushed up to meet him, left it a little longer than ordered to pull the 'chute and got an earful later from the Sergeant. His future had rushed up to meet him in quite the same way, uncontrollable, inevitable once past a certain point. He just hoped the landing wouldn't be too hard.

He only had two exams left to write and then he could have graduated high school cleanly, worked for the summer and done an apprenticeship with a car mechanic as planned. But Christine knocked on his door when he was studying. She wasn't the first domino, not by a long stack, but she was certainly one of the last, and she was pregnant.

Tim offered to marry her, since _he, _the asshole, wouldn't. It was a stupid and chivalrous thing to do and she wisely and heartlessly turned him down because she couldn't marry him, he was a friend, and besides he didn't have an income. She laughed at the idea when he suggested he could join the army. It was the first time the thought of enlisting had ever crossed his mind, a recall of a glimpse through the window into a recruiting office in Lexington, just another domino, just a few back from Christine's domino.

She left after a good cry. Chewing on a nail and shrugging, she said sadly, "It's as good a day as any to grow up," and the next time he saw her was just before he left for Basic – a beach ball for a stomach and still pretty.

The next domino, after Christine's, fell only a few hours past her visit, just before lunch. A Deputy US Marshal, accompanied by Sheriff Henley, came to ask Tim if he knew the whereabouts of Andy Slater, car thief, miraculous survivor of a high speed chase on the freeways of Los Angeles that left two police officers and Andy's accomplice dead. Tim had nothing to offer except Maine, Washington State or maybe Canada, that and the make and model of his beautiful Harley, a 1990 Fat Boy, and likely not even his.

He didn't feel much like studying that afternoon, after that Marshal had driven back down the road. Tim shuffled listlessly from his bed to his desk to his window, staring at Frank's car parked in the yard up the road, waiting for him to leave so he could get his rifle and go up into the hills and practice his Zen art of shooting the shit out of stuff.

Frank was pretty much the last domino, arguably. And he was the first, too, if Tim cared to think back that far. He hated to give the man so much credit for shaping his life but he had to appreciate the circular nature of the influences. There was something Zen about it.

When Frank, uncharacteristically, hadn't left to go to the pool hall by 3pm, Tim decided to get the rifle anyway, concluding that Frank was likely sleeping off a late one and it wouldn't be a problem if Tim were quiet.

Tim was quiet; Frank was sitting on the couch feeling lazy, smoking, as surprised to see Tim walk in from the kitchen as Tim was to see Frank out of bed.

"What the fuck are you doing in my house?" Frank sputtered.

Tim figured he had used up his ration of emotions for the day with Christine and Andy, he replied with a flat tone and no fear. "Give me the rifle from under the couch. I'm going shooting."

"Like hell I will."

Frank was up and moving. Tim ducked around the table and past the threat and into the living room. He dropped to his knees and reached for the rifle but it wasn't there. He was surprised by a bit of anger left and he picked at it when it started itching.

"Where did you put it?" he demanded.

Frank kept coming and Tim backed away from him and out the front door and down the steps into the yard, finally feeling a little frustration to go with that bit of anger.

"This is still as much my house as yours and I want that rifle, you asshole. Just for once could you do something for me? For fuck's sake, you're my father."

"For all I know, you're not even mine."

Frank spat the words out intending an insult but Tim just tilted his head, blinked at the absurdity and shrugged. "Is that the best you can do? You know, I think I'd be happier than you to find out that was true. You are such a fucking loser."

"You step in my house again and you _will_ be sorry."

"No more sorry than I am now."

Tim's calm anger was fuel on the fire and Frank let out a roar that tripped itself up toward the end, catching itself on the phlegm and the hardened walls of his lungs and throat and sputtering unthreateningly into another fit of coughing. He turned and staggered back into the house, not bothering even to attempt a chase.

Tim watched him go and felt something slip away with him, and the void left in the wake of Frank's malice didn't fill up with disappointment like it usually did but stayed empty. Tim didn't even feel a tug when the line broke and his anger, the bait he'd tied time and again to a hook and cast into his father's path for him to bite on and fight and eventually spit out, the bait that he'd then reel back in for another day, was lost to him, pulled away with the retreating figure. The sudden stillness caught Tim unprepared. He felt almost bereft and turned in a circle looking for something, wondering what came next. He finished the tour of his world and stood lost, staring at the porch, stuck firmly by the sudden apathy.

Then Frank came back out through the door in a cold fury loading the rifle. He lifted it to his shoulder, aimed at his son and pulled the trigger.

The rifle misfired. Tim heard the click of the firing mechanism and looked at his father's face in disbelief. Frank stomped his foot and ejected the shell and tried another, lifted, aimed, fired. Tim started backing up finally, took a step and another. The cold truth that he was witness to crept up his legs like he was wading into a fast river in winter, and still he watched, and Frank tried again, lifted, aimed, fired. Tim's mouth slowly dropped open, his eyes pinned to Frank's face. There was no hope of unseeing now. There might have been a time before this moment when it could have been salvaged into something, when the void might have been filled with pity if nothing else, but not now. It was too late. There was no forgetting and no fixing and no forgiving. Tim had hooked the truth today and he got a good look at it as it broke the surface.

Lift, aim, fire. Drawing his hands up to hide from it, Tim rubbed at his eyes, wiped at the image. Then he turned and walked down the road, the image following. And years from now when he needed to steel himself to do something he didn't think he could do, he'd recall that image and remember that there wasn't anything a man wasn't capable of. Like Christine said, it was as good a day as any to grow up.

His legs took him down the hill and he turned right and walked through town. He reached the parkway and stuck out his thumb and eventually someone stopped. He hitched a ride west.

* * *

It took Tim two days to get back from Lexington. By then school was out for the summer but he'd learned something new outside of the classroom, choked on the irony – you had to have a parent's signature to enlist if you were seventeen. Also, they wouldn't consider you without a high school diploma. One thing about growing up, it taught you just how stupid you were.

He was walking in front of the shop under Miss Hall's apartment just as she came out her door.

"Timothy," she snapped, took the shell-shocked boy by the arm and pulled him in. "Where have you been?"

He sat at her kitchen table, despondent, in the same chair he always sat in. She slid a plate across with a sandwich and he methodically ate. She listened to his sometimes incoherent ramblings as he described his last three days, more talking than she'd ever heard from him. And for once, she was sympathetic, not offering advice or chastising or smacking him on the head with a challenge.

"What are you going to do now?" she asked kindly.

"I don't know." Three words never sounded so dull.

Miss Hall took charge. "Well, let's get you credit for those two exams you missed. Heaven knows you've done the work. Then you can get a diploma and you can decide what to do after that. You have a summer job, right?"

He nodded.

"When you turn eighteen in the fall you can go back and enlist if that's what you really want to do."

He nodded again and she was rewarded with a brief smile.

"Now, what do you want to do about Frank?"

"Nothing."

"Timothy, he tried to shoot you."

"I ain't afraid of him."

"Maybe you should be."

Tim shrugged.

He walked up the hill, thinking about an apology for Steve and Millie, but he had another stop to make first. Cautiously he approached his house, the car was gone and he was relieved – he didn't want to see Frank anytime soon. He went in the back door and searched everywhere for the rifle. Defeated he walked back out the front leaving both doors wide open.

It was lying on the ground beside the porch, discarded. Frank had tossed it away in anger that day and there it sat. Tim jumped the steps and picked it up, carried it back to the trailer and hid it behind his desk then went to make amends with the people he cared about more than anything else.

After dinner, he cleaned the rifle carefully, took the firing pin out of the drawer in his desk where he kept it always and replaced it. He would go shooting tomorrow. He had an entire box of ammo weighing heavily in his hand and the day off.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx


	15. Chapter 15

**Bygones – Chapter Fifteen (epilogue)  
**

"You okay, Rachel?" Art asked, clearing up the glasses and escorting her out of his office.

"I'm fine, Chief. Really I am."

"You sure?" Art was not going to let this one go quickly. He'd be watching her closely for weeks to come.

"I'm sure," she replied, slowly, deliberately, holding his gaze as she walked past him. Art backed off.

She cast a glance at Tim shutting off his computer and cleaning up, well past quitting time. He cocked his head, holding her attention, lifted an eyebrow, mischievous. "Welcome to the club."

To anyone else it would seem a callous thing to say, but she knew him better than that. She changed direction, headed over and perched on his desk. "I'm not certain I ever wanted to be a member."

"And that's why I like you," he stated. "I knew a couple of guys that couldn't wait to join."

She knew there was more, let him get there. He added, "Notice I didn't say they were _friends_."

"Come for dinner Sunday?"

"You bet." He opened his eyes wide. "Never miss a chance for your ma's cooking."

She smiled, walked to her desk. Tim followed behind, a hesitation and a thoughtful look back at Raylan as he pushed through the doors and headed to the elevators.

Raylan waited for Tim to leave then hovered, trying to decide what his role should be in this as the more senior Marshal, the shooter. Eventually Rachel couldn't ignore the scrutiny any longer, looked up at him.

"You heading out?" Raylan asked, an invitation embedded in the question.

She hedged. "In a minute."

"I'll wait," he pushed gently, watching her.

She looked directly back at him. "Don't."

Raylan wasn't offended. This sort of thing was personal, not a topic he'd pry into unless invited, but he offered some advice for what it was worth, hoped she listened because it was honestly meant, then left her alone with her thoughts. You could give advice, a gift of sorts, and once given it wasn't yours anymore and you couldn't control what happened to it. Hard experience had taught him that. He thought about the advice given to him for his first shooting, thought about the regrets long in the past now.

He was surprised to find Tim waiting for him by his car, leaning against the hood, surprised too that he was glad to see him. He had a question for him.

"Do you think it's okay to leave her alone?" Raylan asked, pointing back to the courthouse.

"I was going to ask you that," Tim replied.

Raylan huffed, "Well, if _you_ don't know…"

Tim responded in kind, "Well, if _you_ don't know…" He glared at Raylan for not figuring it out – that he, Tim, was clueless about all of this. "My first is a blur, Raylan. I never got to dwell on it." A pat on the back and some more ammo is all he remembered. "I thought...," he paused and waved a hand at him impatiently, "I thought you'd have a better idea what she's going through."

Raylan shook his head. "It's different for everyone." The words of experience.

Tim sighed, uncertain, then figured she'd come see him if she needed to – she had an open invitation to his house. She'd always respected his privacy on matters like this and he would reciprocate. "She'll probably go talk with her mom," he said, making a decision for both of them. "Better than Dr. Phil, that woman."

Raylan nodded, added lightly, "I'm disappointed she's not feeling more like unloading. I was hoping for an excuse to hit the bar."

"Well I thought you'd never ask," Tim responded with enthusiasm, pushing off the car and striding across the parking lot. "I'm in."

Raylan followed, not needing a push to join him. "You weren't the date I had in mind."

"Love the one your with, Raylan. You're not what I had in mind, either, but at least I know you won't be on my back for drinking too much."

Tim sounded snarlier than usual and Raylan eyed him while they walked across the street. Naturally curious about people, Raylan liked to pry, ask questions. Some of his subjects basked happily in the attention and spilled all; others weren't so inclined to share. He had the good fortune of working with two of the latter. Rachel and Tim were a challenge, not at all forthcoming. It made it interesting, a slow peel.

After they'd seated themselves at a table, Raylan gratified his curiosity. "Were you serious back there?"

Tim looked at him, eyebrows furrowed. "About what? _Love the one your with_? That's a song lyric, Raylan. I was being funny." Raylan looked back blankly. Tim shrugged. "Or maybe not. I don't see you laughing."

Raylan made a wry face. "I got it, Tim, and no, it wasn't funny. I was talking about you wanting to shoot your father."

Tim flipped over the menu, eyes wandering the list of offerings from the bar's kitchen. "Nope. Joking."

"You like your dad, then? Get along okay?" Raylan knew the answer before he asked, remembering Tim's response when Arlo was arrested, the shrug at the charges like it was expected of fathers then his reaction to him when he met the man at the Veteran's Club. Raylan had built a picture long before he posed the question. It was always a disappointment to discover your parents were human, but for some kids, and he put Tim in the same group with himself, the truth was a long way down from what you hoped for.

"No," Tim answered abruptly after a pause. "He was an asshole. He died of natural causes before I got back from Basic." Tim looked around the bar, chewed his lip. "Well, _natural causes_ – naturally a fucking loser. He smoked himself to death. I wouldn't have wasted a shot on him. I had better things to do with my time."

"Considering how well you shoot, I imagine it would hardly have taken much time at all," Raylan pointed out logically.

"Just goes to show…" Tim left it at that, but the bitterness was so intense even Raylan could taste it.

"What'd he do so bad?" Raylan's curiosity was peaked now.

"Murdered my mother," Tim muttered.

Raylan wasn't sure he heard right over the noises in the bar. "What?"

The waitress came by at that moment, the interruption breaking the line of questioning, and Raylan couldn't get Tim back on it. He tried. They returned instead to the subject foremost in everyone's mind that day – first kills – rehashing Rachel's, reliving their own. It digressed quickly to first cars then first girlfriends, taking them well past their first drinks, and not for the first time, they closed down the bar that night.

* * *

xxxxxxxxx

**Author's ramblings:** I couldn't help myself - another epilogue - I had to bring in the Marshals Office scene that inspired the story and some drinking for the last chapter. Thank you all once again for reading. And, once again, an extra special thank you to anyone who left a comment. This was a special request story and I hope it was to your liking (you know who you are.) It was fun to imagine.


End file.
